By Charles Bane Jr.
It is an aloneness, this malady.
It hurled me from Bucephalus yesterday.
I fell ( as I lay and shook
upon the fields ) into the sea. There are always
dolphins waiting; in beautiful depths
I take a fin and watch patterns cross
the bodies of my companions that are cut from cloaks
of waves, or handsome shields. I wish the world
was watery. Swords are only flashing schools,
motioning past. The dolphins turned
to shallows and I cried, but made only bubbles.
I could not call , “Away from war. I watched you swim
at twilight once, and looked on peace.”