by Myriam Solar
I w i_
s h e d to w r i t e for
Shakespeare and what he
has bequeathed us: “ Today my
ambushed bird has started to part
the dust of the sanctuary of the [ Holy
Trinity Church] at Stratford an you, Sir,
foreshadowed at the well now taste the
wine from my wineskin, three hundred and
seventy nine years old – according to the per_
petuated calendar–as if this hemisphere of time
were a crossword containing everything:the cor_
dial hand, the compass, the plumed serpent, the
earth bound.” “ I will whisper in your ear, W. S.”:
“Here lies only the origin and joy, the place of
the last metamorphoses and elixirs made
from mermaids tears distilled in stills with
their cries. “ Sir W.S .– now a marble
stone resident – was not anywhere
else. H e b e g a n w i n e drinking
because of his mist,his concerns,
h i s W. S H., a n d
n o t h i n g e l s e
Last updated October 10, 2011