the god of thunder once rode on his horse after a battle
cursing the storm that matted his hair to his head
and, beside him, his treacherous relative, bane of the world,
laughed quietly into the curve of his left hand with twisted lips
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because I have become old enough to die, I worry not:
the man fated to die of thirst can fear no wall of flame
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I know a woman with children and sadness.
She pretends but all pretenses are exhausting.
She is nearly alone again but children remain
and so she cannot indulge her despair.
I mean to relate to her a humorous occurrence of an earlier day,
but I forget the details.
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