SOOTHSAYER

Upon the Tiber’s sacred banks,
the black grape waters idly lap
like wine within a swirling cup,
the sleek and bloodied entrails spill
between my stiff and shaking hands
to roll and coil on sun baked dust.
I see a crown of laurels there,
all seeped in false and guilty tears,
and at its heart a bitter hate,
its innards twisted like this lamb.

The noblest Rom...

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