Once I heard the origin of the epic
revealed in the waves of my dream.
This long journey out of war,
leaving the burning city, carrying father,
on my back, like our names, like the
streets, pavements, squares, but all
somehow learned second hand, moving to
seas of winds of sirens and monsters
of the gods and their other offspring,
believed we’d left all
behind for paths our own, ignored
our bent backs as we walked again

selling oysters on some shore,
everyone and everything smaller now,
not recognizing the buyers
see us as dressed wrong,
dwellers not of any polis, our words
fallen short of targets, no one
who will stay for our stories,
our accents and salad phrases reveal
a longing for a farm,
all we once knew, restored
in a few acres, but at night this
also seems a concession, a lover settling
for money, a…