from An Apogee
Acrostics are an awful verse, a doltish pantomime;
Constrict construction for the disquisition infantine.
Rapacious in his empty verse, the poet seems to be
Obsequious to the obverse; he is a prodigy.
Sanballat would not couch in prose, circuitous in time
To work his wonders silently, without the subject line.
In retrospect appears the eminent for minstrelsy
Capricious: though illumined, without delivery.
Supposing, then, the bards remain alone in infancy.