I sleep in the wake
left by his craft.
I sleep, arock, in his wake,
the cradle of the waves rocked gently
by a finger of the moon
shone on the purple water.
I sleep. I dream Ulysses safely home,
past Circe, past Charybdis,
song of one, gnashing of the other,
past the high screams of the Sirens
that drive poets crazy.
I row the poet through the Sirens screaming.
I row through the scalding
sea of the ancients,
my skin flayed red
by the Apollonian sun,
for having dreamed Ulysses safely home?,
I bound to row, no harbor mine.
12 January 1014