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HOMERIC
OUTING
What
chance is there of making dreams
with
the mind and hand working together?
At
the end of rehearsals for a larger life
they
are stuck sometimes with common revelries;
egg/sun
dropping out in the ocean
leaves
only the promise of another vaster day.
There
is our campfire returned to ashes,
the
air is asleep in the trees. The notes
of
the song have dissipated unflinchingly
among
the stars; the surf is now a ribbon
of
sound. What is left after the feast
except
the empty cluttered tables
and
one more memory?
The
seals and birds have gone to their rocks
and
we to the warmth of our selves.
What
need is there now to light the sky,
to
shout into a deep sea,
to
offend the slumberous deities
one
by one wrapping themselves
in
the solitude of world without myth?
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