Saline drips with the waters of memory.
In foreign ports, your windows barely shuttered,
I imagine you locked away in Circe’s embrace;
I can hear the narcissistic echo of a heartbeat
singing your lover’s symphonies in the sin
That runs dumb in my bed.
As the squall of yesterday’s news rips past
an Argo of litter, mythological trash,
Do you see my name amongst them –
plastered with the iconography of the dead,
as eternal and forgotten as the buried past
life as ephemeral as wedding vows.
I was a star once, brilliant enough to be caught
by the millpond of your regard, to become a reflection.
Was it this discovery
Or this one, or this,
That you shouted over, denying I had shone?
There is mythology here:
Remembrance of a past that burns down
The paper houses of our years,
Waiting in Ithaca for an Odysseus that will never reappear.