lost in the
Between sleep and Homer, tonight I'll take these slashes of white unfurling where the air meets sea. Halfway through the list of ships they start to morph, now hatchlings, cranes, now railroad cars, now taking flight, now rising over Greece.
They form a wedge. They point to shores still stranger than their own. The holy foam crowning their kings-- where are you going? You've come for Troy qua Helen, soldiers; what of Troy qua Troy?
Your Homer, and your sea, and you-- you all extend yourselves along by love. But who moves me? And look: the Bard avoids my gaze, the Black Sea raises a glass and lectures like a drunk man, and like a drunk he rages against my bed.