Tonight I can’t remember why
everything is permitted or, 
what amounts to the same thing,

The courtroom, clad in wood veneer,
could be a lesser pharaoh’s tomb
equipped for immortality.

I am, Madam., no beggar, but a peddler of dreams,
Purveyor of the Gospel of Beauty, Reciter of Rhymes . . .

And they regarded him from the shadows of their porches,

I open a volume of fluid. 
A bright sloth orphanage glints 
from the screen within the screen, 

Teukros: . . . in sea-girt island: Cyprus, where it was written
        by Apollo I should live, naming the city Salamis
        to remember my island home

Our story is noble and tragic
As the face of a tyrant not fun not for everyone
No drama or magic

besides not being from ancient troy
helen bailey hails from australia
her middle name is hypatia, her mother 

        Aiee, father of mine, father of mine,
        What are these shouts in the rain, these voices in the air?
        The petal is ripped from the flower, the branch from the tree.

At three A.M. we passed
through the Great Pit
and our boat, which had always been creaky
withdrew instantly

My gift to you will be an abyss, she said, 
but it will be so subtle you’ll perceive it
only after many years have passed