55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity,  
a living record. Nor against death can we outlive our doom advancing slowly. 
Not marble nor rhyme so move. Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone beserk.  
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than all the wealth coming into this poem...  
 
You and I find room in our prospect, oblivious, uninvited — statues overturned, and we brought guests — death and memory. I...   
 
Even closer now in death’s eyes, I burn with quick fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask) more, should I?   
 
War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest and at work.