This happened before the revolution:
Walking amid maples and oaks after
signing away his works—his profusion
of fame and money a curse—he’d have her
concealed far from truth rather than reveal
his actions as soft husbands do. But love,
never simple as in songs, felt him kneel
before her while rising to glare above
her prone frame—white-bearded god to a world
needing gods. But not to her. She knew well
and long his unbathed scent, his snores, vast curls
of his spread beard. Still, he tried to dispel
image of her coming ire; applaud her
beauty; recall the first time he saw her.
Roger Armbrust
July 28, 2011
