It was all he could do, someone shouted.
They leaned over and he was gone,
they body dissolved in spring filaments.
When they came faster, it was disaster, you
wouldn't believe how many supplicants defected.
and him all ready to rewrite history
if a chance footnote offered itself.
He even tried to laminate my horse,
said it would go better. O I tell you,
the things we had, too many
in our time, too many pebbles on the shore.
We came back later but most of them were gone.
A few shot back the light of the strict stars
and that was all I had to say to you. He'd get mad,
they'd banish us. We'd swim in steep delirium.
(A poem in this week's issue of The New Yorker)