By Thomas Page

Virgil says hell is in
Naples, birthplace of pizza:
Sweltering ovens

I finally know
Why a sweater is called
A “sweater;” it’s hot

A poet and a tech
Each crafting a design the
Same; ekphrasis

A thousand years of
Death in Virgil recycled
By oblivion

A doppelgänger
Sitting at a desk with his
Head down looks the same

Smarting headaches are
A gnawing annoyance that
Won’t go away

Beleaguered readers
Of Joyce terrified that some
Errata are true

The internet is
Complaining about endless
January days

Flood waters begin
To ride along dry creek
Beds; so much rain

I don’t see any
Birds lost in the pouring rain.
Just gray skies and streets

Ink more expensive
Than blood; documents thicker
Than blood and water

The vainglorious villain,
Is practical theater

“Exit, pursued by
Bear,” loaded gun on Chekhov’s
Table; now Act II

Miller’s prison is
Vacant. Bring the dead on stage
On ekkyklema

Telescope pointed
At the sun, an Icarus
Trying to study

Warm eastbound rains awaken
Elm-tombed cicadas
Ready to summer

Orwell warns us ‘gainst
Planting Latin in war fields
But he plants there, too

Broken umbrella
Like a bare, petrified tree
Provides no cover

O’Neill, with heavy
Heart, pens his troubles the way
He knows—the theater

Tennessee Will’ams,
Bard of the South, speaks through ghosts

Worn weeping willows.

Lillian Hellman,
Inspired by Scotsman’s court,
Writes a tragedy

A paper phoenix
With green and red tail clum
Above the lit room  

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