Being Shakespeare is a heavy burden.
Having a way with words.
I encounter him at night,
freezing, trying to define himself
to the empty air,
and it does no good.
He still is full of grieving,
laughter,
courageous and afraid.
And I watch and say to him,
Will, you are too many men
at one time.
A dozen lives cramped in one.
Not a multiple personality,
but you hear everything talking,
making up stories and verses.
So that you are, for all your gifts,
left with nothing.
And Will nods.
He never replies, busy as he is,
with perfect lines that burst inside him
like rockets,
visible to a genius
whose words strip the world clear
and make it glorious.