Before all that hot pursuit,
I lived a pastoral existence:
meadows and mead and suitors swimsuited…
But Apollo? Blacklisted.
In the end, I died a pastoral existence,
or wish I had, anyway.
Apollo–black tempered, incensed–
turned pirate, barged up my waterways.
What wishes I had were waked away;
he had a fast boat.
I turned on the waterworks,
turned on my heel, and wrote my footnotes,
but he had a faster boast.
I got to shore, got treed.
He’s such a heel. Footnote:
I’m turned, gone bad.
I’m got, for sure. I’m tree
in meadow, see? We’re completely unsuited,
But I’d do it again–the turning, the going–
not for what ensued, but for the ensuing.