I. THE CRAVING
                The Odyssey, Book Twelve

I needed a warning from the goddess
and a group of men to lash me to the mast
hand and foot, so that I could listen

I miss the misery. I knew I would, even as I leaped
away from my brother to the tribal drumming
of my heart: Britain was more ancient then, the stones

whose eyes are a fair, spiky green
I only see on my hands
and knees at spring's initial offerings, how

Drive-by birth—this mother snares a cab.
Shoots up, delivers, leaves her baggage
Backseat to the world—boy born, tab

come in every size and shape,
wiry and weighty,
jogging and mincing, plodding and sprinting,

In Rogier van der Weyden's Annunciation
The Holy Ghost enters the Virgin's chamber
As a dove gliding on a beam of light—

I tire as I carve the passage
Til the wind peeks out from underneath.
Yes, I guess this is clean now.

I remember the eerie, flickering pall
cast up from the instrument panel onto his face,

That was my favorite hour—the balance point—
the momentary gradients of dusk

of asphalt—bypasses and freeways—and a venomous, blood-orange dusk above it all.