The day our wives left, we gathered their things
in brown, worsted sacks and burned them
in the garden, scattering the ashes

Urging our oxen toward the risen sun,
our stick plows stirring up the dust in waves,
also, in waves, we taste those words come back,

It was our favorite pastime, to be sure,
those hairs waiting to be split, those pieces
that passed understanding. We thought we'd find

civilizations are forever falling
we could not have loved our barbarians less.

It is something they know only after
meals. You have heard of the sparrow’s fall?

I like its look.
I lick the evening, too.

He’s princely when he’s here, our Gilgamesh,
but soon we will be leaving him for good.

They burned our witch last Tuesday, so sad
to watch her go up like a puff of smoke,
the pale ash excited into air

The prince is waving good-bye. Good-bye Prince,
we shout as he ascends the steps of his coach,
Good-bye! Then he is gone with a contagion