Horatian Ode


You were under
The olive, Octavia,
		Powdering your slave
		Boy's boyhood,
		
While he found with one
Finger the fruity
		Bell's tongue still caught
		Between your lips.
		
Such dark curls to
Expose in this
		Well-lit pathway,
		Such expensive
		
Generations of graftings
To make over as
		Libation to the ordinary
		Grasses of the merest
		
Grass gods.