(after Horace Ode 1.32 Poscimus si quid)

If ever I’ve toyed with you before,
I pray, as I curl up with you in my still bed,
and play with words to outlive me,
come and drop your flaccid thoughts
into my ears to make them flap,
my Roman poet

first turned on for me by a man of Latin
who, whether battling with students
or relaxing by the oar-sprayed Isis,
still emails on Archilochus and Virgil,
on Ovid and Alcaeus,
on you, with your lyrical spirit
your lyrical tongue.

I glorify you, Horace, my bed-time book,
welcome at mind-feasts;
poet who’s lit up my efforts:
Give me your worldly insights
whenever I think of you.