
Kalypso
I am the end of song,
The anti-Muse,
Cessation of thought,
The reef that is woman.
Narrative is a ship
That sails by these benching sands.
My name veils the slow dearth of
words,
The stuttering failure of Odysseus'
voice,
Who came here draped in poetry
Like the briny weed that wraps
A shipwrecked corpse
When washed ashore.
He remembers some things
perhaps,
Enough to cry, and taste that salt.
It stirs some fond recollection
Of reefing the sails, and making
fast
The linen, and the story he spun
out of
That storm, about the black pall of
the waves.
My name is Kalypso.
I conceal, and I cover,
More muffling than the glebes
of Troy,
For to fall on this land, one falls
alone.
There is no song here.
Just the empty foam of love
On the sanded shore, and
The stories steering far off
On the horizon.
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