the brilliant dead cut loose by time,
the disciples who owned them, knowing them so well, see their own darling dispersed like spring air, see what was their own being used however they choose by the upstarts.
The most enormous ocean of all is past-time.
The dead and all their goods hover and float
below a surface and the newest to arrive
ride the surface looking down into all that wealth
for what they want and need. Back at the beach
the goods are laid out, to be thought about.
And when the ones who thought they had it all
in their pocket start screaming they’re given
no respect at all. Newcomers ignore them, act
like they have their own relationship with
what they’ve gathered, won’t hear the old
strictures of last years interpretation,
mean to start over as if none of it ever got said, look at the screechers knowing they’ll also die, in the near future, and then we can have some peace around here, they hardly notice the vehemence, the galloping gesture as the disciples fight to regain the size they had when their hero was alive, the newcomers are at work rebuilding the edifice. meaning to improve it, to make it suit themselves