First, he was the delicate man who read poetry: “everyone must be good!”
They heard him at the festival. Everyone understood.
But eventually it became apparent he was completely naïve.
To prevent a backlash, he asked the only one he really loved to leave.
Then, the seducer at Tyre, in the cape his mother washed
During the financial panic when the revolution was squashed.
After that, a composer, whose unsteady inventions, morose, yet sublime,
Filled the stadiums with those who worshiped a philosophy of stadiums on time.
They had to be on time. They had to meet the conditions,
To attend his concert, and hear his exaggerated renditions.
They had to sit close enough, as a live audience, to hear
His body. He played with confidence. He had absolutely no fear.
He didn’t miss a beat, but, what they couldn’t tell,
Was increasingly in the afternoons, he began to drink and yell.
His third wife got to him and told him he was no good,
And convinced him that all his glory was luck, and had nothing to do with his will,
That everything simply is, and nothing is possible.
Nothing, she convinced him, improves,
And he believed her. It was the end of his life. And his loves.