Monday, August 12, 2013

The Iliad

For J.M.

Death changes nothing. Priam still is king.
Horses run. Fresh flowers—lilac, rose—
still lift the spirit out of time to sing
an everlasting song. No heroes

here. Only towers made of sound. The wind
sweeps across their breastworks like a hand
across a harp: a vortex twisting in
agony across a devastated land—

a land hard to define. A voice. Not
one in particular: the voice of dust,
one speck among millions; an arrow shot
into your throat; remains of a man who lost

his life in a long-silted river, drowned,
as a great battle raged all around.

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