Ulysses
A river rises,
and somewhere at the end of it
the sea, as though salt itself
was a new direction.
When I was a boy
chasing wavebreak on the shore,
I saw the shift of each alliance
fill footprints with the grains.
A great endeavour passes,
keeps oar-time in the mind,
from a simple setting out,
war fleets and the dead battalions.
All this fine weather,
the ship’s hands tacking hard—
we ride the wind’s fuse
to a burst of knots.
The deck lifts
rolling on a shelf of swell, then
sudden sink of senses
where wave-trough tips the bow.
To the east, a needle of smoke:
Troy scattered, broken
by the hoi-polloi of heroes
caught in beauty’s undertow.
Siege stones pave the plain, the glint
of grave shields starry with the gods’ intent.
A common purpose came to nothing,
a distance without landfall.
We are buried in bronze,
and cannot distinguish the mouth of hell
from the line of cupped sail,
or slack sea deep with journeys.
Sacrifice is a cold fire,
around the earth a darkness,
devouring, a murderous whim
calling each of us by name.
We offered blood for safe passage.
The slit throat sang from the ashes…
the walls without consequence… city.
The wide blades pull against the tide.
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