He pretended to write a panegyric poem.
‘Someone ought to,’ he said. Rome seemed far away.
As did the Hare Krishnas chanting, ‘Ohm’.
Or Ampere? Watt? — He’s not sure what they say.

The wind resembled things that have no name.
Leaves fell. They would. But should not. This was Spring
when a young man’s heart should turn to fancy fame.
The police cat made a mess of balling string

or was that stringing messes? What was clear
was that fog was creeping over slime slick stones
and chill was claiming children he held dear.
The village wizard read his fate in bones

cast tumbling from an antique leather cup.
The story — gory, glorious, and wild —
accelerated till his time was up.
He pretended that was his intention all the while.