I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand…
God help me, I don’t know where I’m going.
We hold each other’s hand like children
finding our way home among the closing wolves.
Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian cave,
Mortal Endymion, darling of the Moon!
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day
‘Listen, the last stroke of death’s noon has struck—
The plague is come,’ a gnashing Madman said…
I’ve been meaning to write about a patch of mossy
frogs’ eggs in a vernal pool, about a single contrail
chalking a blue November sky…
Wasn’t it beneath this spot the son of Kronos
pursued his inamorata, holding out a handful
of shining seeds?
He tears off summer’s dress,
exposes trunk and limb, threatens
worse coming. Yet he brings gifts…
Hands in my pockets, the salt on the streets,
the yellowing aura that means you are here
by my side again, waking me in dread
with no buffer or bounce. It’s been ten years.