As if an apology might kill him,
he reversed his tantrum, took on the aspect
of one grievously wounded, if not quite crucified.
He retired to his tent, indulged his whim
for mirrors, peered out at intervals for hide
or hair of those he’d wronged, neglect
of manners but no bounty on his head.
For one who claimed an intimacy with words
he was struck dumb as a newborn pup,
waiting for someone to tuck him lovingly in bed,
to praise him for his blamelessness and sweep his messes up.
But only ignorant sea and selfish birds
have come to serve as audience and friend,
to salute his rising star, to note his glorious end.