Sonnet 86:

The future gives full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to prize and grow, that is, write great verse.
I thought of you
giving us cohorts aid.. No, we see our pride flies off, out of control as it works around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brains ripen, we reach neither calm of victory nor fear — by night I lack a precious affable character beyond my mortal self.. both that and a familiar’s ghost morality strike me all too precious matters, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.