Here Ulysses, with his dread cries,
mounts the shore with sudden sackings
pricking in his thighs.
And yet this ground lies fallow
and the ministrations of its thrumming
hold the seeds in pious furrows.
Here are shells, cracked with dying;
sharp and mad like a coffin’s price.
And still, lifting up,
the surpliced crane calls the dust to wonder:
If the dog had withered sooner,
would there yet be a realm to plunder?
Copyright 2006 j. bennett carnahan, jr.