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Letter to Mary Shelley Letters to the dead, or their conversations No longer thrive among the literati. We’ve all grown I-bound here, and no other demonstration Is wanted, but only a sort of lyric potpourri - which captures our moods and days And is put quite nicely in quaint sachets. I’m not complaining – I turn out my quire And sometime make a little genius patter Illuminating the soft and hard wires That make up my neural personal matter According to all the best popsci bestsellers Apparently we’re just haunts in genetic cellars. You were born to the royal anti-royal blood the little red riding hoods of the revolution but grew up, Gretel-like, to brood on the wolf that might solve your family situation. Then he came, dressed in robes of poesie - which is how you eloped with the romantic agony. I should tell you, Mary, we no longer brook long letters written with that manual drolery - letters as long as the chapters in your   book i