the past is a moon that can be
heard? speckled rocks
of stranded glass, dull and dragging
on a shore. being swayed
from here
to here is boring.
Calypso, as her own king,
celebrates the victory of day
in which her island is unmoving
wreath of topped trees. home is where
the money is, all that summer gossamer,
all that encombing shoreline. time makes
little likenesses of us. let’s not remember
the loss. some things we know.
no use in the end.