was him every time: he just bounced.
astonished at landing on you
likewise pleased at the prospect of new
he’d peer and blink and smile
say let’s do something, right now, while
sat dazed, having been thoroughly trounced.
was constantly, restlessly bouncing,
you with him into mad motion
rapid talk of that very day’s notion.
large lunch, two drinks and one singular book
the only academical tools it took
grumblers were seen to exit, flouncing).
wasn’t so bad, really, to be bounced–
off your dignity and you could call
delightful. Swept along on all
of cloudy liberal visions,
your breath at his decisions,
over the heights from which he pounced,
landing on his feet, pronouncing
he hit the ground the next but one plan:
visit from the Imam of Turkmenistan
a new Baroque ensemble, himself
harpsichord, or for us all a shelf
required reading, on pain of bouncing.
books you wrote at night, but announcing
you wrote in us is now our task. I say
bounce was the best ever; more, I lay
we’ll not feel your lovely like again,
rise from such a fortunate fall
you have given to us, one and all.
libraries, you built the twain:
both we love and honor in your major name,
we must learn to live without your bouncing.
back to vicarage