Apollo Considers the Humans

Dear gods, fellow infinities,

let’s not debase ourselves.

How many of our countless breaths

are we to waste on such as these?

Consider sea-foam, cave-sweat,

wet snow in a breeze, a low tide’s

glittering debris; should we fret

over mere pittances? For wharf rats

drowning in a wave?

Should we let that one there,

inflamed by what’s called grief,

dragging his foe through dust,

dazzle eternity? It makes me

dizzy to look so far down.

None of us knows why he

won’t join the others eating

squid and roast calf there on the beach

where dusk-fires blaze. Not all

you delegates, not this vast council,

could unravel him to me.

If they know flesh will fall—

spear-torn, despoiled by dogs—then

why anoint it so devotedly in oil?

And in those rare gaps when

they’re not driving each other

through, why do they dream

of such dull things: spring weather,

children, or the pinks and limes

of some far city slowly chafed

to nothing by the sea? Sometimes

they make sweet smoke. Some

charms, though dim, shine through,

like when they wash themselves

of blood, pour wine, and waste

the night debating if they’re

more than shade or breath, no more

than eddies of our surplus air,

fleeting as bat-swoop over flame.

Someone says Yes. Another No.

This lasts till dawn. Not much, I know,

but like fish thrashing in a net,

it’s shiny. Vivid. Almost sweet.

The will to bear inside such

small four-chambered stuttering

ten-chambered grief. A wild litany

of pain, and then more pain.

Here only they excel. I’ve seen

a girl clutching a broken comb

for hours in a strange bed, weeping,

then get up. I can’t say how.

Nor why they’ll stare all evening

as the sea’s roseate darkens to rose,

or smile when their weight

lands on a bent right leg, letting

a javelin go. We are above such

blemishes: the burden of wonder,

or pity, or shame. Risking

nothing for beauty, permitted

no change. Such talks therefore

kill time but settle nothing.

Give them up. Let’s leave these

to the bounty of their tears.

Let that one think her husband

still breathes air. Let her, oblivious,

draw him a bath he’ll never take.

Let that man, bent by age, driven

by sorrow past all sense, leave

home to beg the body of a son

dragged now through dust for days.

If anything could make me weep,

it would be this, to know his

weeping won’t make any difference,

and watch him still go on, foolish

and vain, over the fragrant ash,

down to the ships, down

to the dark indifferent sea.