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That man

Mon May 23rd, 2016
That man
              that I may reduce the monster to myself  
What is his game? what horse 
can carry him, what 
day allay his harsh surprises? The shocked 
and hooded war-dead sigh 
in torrential nightfalls. Of loss
and more of same. For now 
just this, irrevocable 
waves drink our wishes; biologists 
track species deaths. That man, 
we who cannot disassemble him 
fear his far-flung net, the  twisted 
strings and bounteous 
cacophony of interests that enliven him: 
I see a revelry, a vast 
and bumbled  leafy air. Beholden 
to a pleasure, a bird or two, 
a Goldberg variation,
I ask, what is our nature? That man 
is no example for children; he did not know 
his strength, they said. Crows 
upbraid him, pecking at his flesh. 
As if God’s final banquet 
were at hand and he a sinner 
about to be unnerved in a medieval fantasy; 
he stands, looks around.
Kathlleen Weaver is the author of several books of poetry as well as Peruvian Rebel: The World of Magda Portal, with a Selection of Her Poems. She frequently translates Spanish, especially Latin American poets.