Couldn’t be easier. As easy as
a hand upon my shoulder. It’s a lark.
The trusted one. The loyal me. The mark
of royal favour which no other has.
You ask me what could possibly go wrong?
I’ll tell you. Nothing. That great nothing which
is blankly squatting, basalt in my heart,
the vacuum of the sealed room, the part
unfinished tapestry, the golden stitch,
which shines in coming and which can’t be long.
Look, I’m no seer, but even I can tell
this potion thing is not a good idea:
her eyes, her hands, her smile, a woman’s smell
are potion. Right, let’s go. The skies are clear.