after Baudelaire

The men would sometimes try to catch one,

throwing a looped wire at the great white cross

that tracked their every turn, gliding over their deep

gulfs and bitter waves: the bright pacific albatross.

Now, with a cardboard sign around his neck, the king

of the winds stands there, hobbled: head shorn,

ashamed; his broken limbs hang down by his side,

those huge white wings like dragging oars.

Once beautiful and brave, now tarred, unfeathered,

this lost traveller is a bad joke; a lord cut down to size.

One pokes a muzzle in his mouth; another limps past,

mimicking the skliff, sclaff of a bird that cannot fly.

The poet is like this prince of the clouds

who rides the storm of war and scorns the archer;

exiled on the ground, in all this derision,

his giant wings prevent his marching.