They found him in the throne room one morning
all bandaged in fragments and snippets of cloth-of-gold
and swearing he turns whatever he touches
to heavy, buttery metal.
The world is poisoned, he said, by my existence in it.
If I were to put my hand in the river I would break the sea.
Already the air is more thick and glinting than it should be.
With every step I take I insult the ground.
And the feeling at court is that the Man of Power is
right to be worried; there’s even some talk of a grant
(in silver) for appropriately-worded festal hymns
on this new affliction of Our Benefactor.