THEY are not dead, they are not dead!
Now that the sun, like a lion,
licks his paws
and
goes slowly down the hill:
now that the moon, who remembers, and only
cares
that we should
be lovely in the flesh, with bright, crescent feet,
pauses near the crest of the
hill, climbing slowly, like a queen
looking down on the lion as he
retreats.
Now the sea is the Argonauts’ sea, and in the
dawn
Odysseus calls
the commands, as he steers past those foamy islands
wait, wait, don’t bring the
coffee yet, nor the pain grille.
The dawn is not off the sea, and Odysseus’
ships
have not yet
passed the islands, I must watch them still.