55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts purity, softness but addresses war and enmity  
for a living record. Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a soul a tone beserk.  
So why am I dwelling on the bloody ending like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than that, still brighter than the wealth coming to me thru this poem...  
 
You and I find our own contents, oblivious to posterity, they’re uninvited — their statues
overturned, and we brought our own guests — death and memory. I...   
 
Even closer now to death... I burn with quick flame for wearing out memory’s sluttish velocity
— I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask?) more, should I?   
 
War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest once at work.