16.

Impostors shape fictions of marrow and soul

The light subdues you but not really

Vineyards are commonwealths, and love knows

Its contraries: your eyes express

Their own political philosophy. The tide

Ebbs, our blood with it. Our lips must reach

Beyond politics, but, if not, then let

Them be moist and hot. Let this

Triviality keep the baleful from ruling,

Wearing, burning lovers, strangers, strays.

This is our prayer, the three thieves hanging

On a hill: we all pretend to virtue.

Some say Cressida died yesterday by the wall

Whose ashes players smeared on their faces.