I was able to sway her not with gold, nor with Indian conches,
but with the blandishment of smooth, alluring poetry.

Sextus Propertius, Cynthia Ode

do you remember the words i wrote
for you, the lines that over time began
to escape your attention, the metaphors
that you looked at with a growing sense
of bewilderment? so if you would rather
have indian conches, why would you let
yourself be swayed by my stanzas?
and at what point did an autographed
book of poetry lose to a blank signed
chequebook?