The Vulture

I like to think he would have brought me gifts
from the mountains, had he not been caught

and chained. Even martyred here, his smile
is as sweet as ivory, and generous as rain.

And yet, what weregild might he pay? Surely I eat
the food of gods. The justice

cannot be argued; the blood is sweet. I drink
a toast to his immortal health. We are not foes

but drinking friends -- and I am sure he'd raise the wine
to an old acquaintance coming to dine
at six o'clock in the morning.