Yes, Penelope

 721

What moved in neverchanging space:
an incomplete carnal liberty
light above the circles of the most temporary
latitude.
Me: a narrator of motion; describer of
invisible fits of reflection and absences
These thoughts- shadows of wind
projected along tracks until
reaching their destinations where
they become gradations of incomprehension.

722

Weary childman
your jailor joins you- sealike
in the dark bed running aground
here, in Ithaca, you return
to the land of the squared egg and
the bridge to the darker moon.

Wait the brightday, traveler.

723

Yes, Penelope.

Never so weak as waiting for
the cover of education. A month of dogs, you say?
The matter was all pretended well before you were born
the tragic bed so interesting
the razor, the beard the dirty photo, all
eaten til nothing left but
spirits.

The dying dress and woven-unwoven face
in a sickened city
fear imagined
poisoned love.

Here, we depart.