SWIMMING
TO ITHACA
Sometimes, I don’t like the poems I write.
But they write themselves anyway.
This one is about mortality. About death.
And about choosing the moment…
wetness
beach of shingle
old. alone now
forgetful. time slip away
cell by cell. in flakes of skin
this is where it began. with homer
this is where it ends. now
this is how i intend it
swim from this point
from this fókis beach
towards ithaca
until you swim no more
and the waters of lethe
soothe it all away
except
it’s colder. darker
there’s panic. terror
and then wetness again
on this beach of shingle
this not how i intended.
poetry is unreliable.
a poor guide
and the sun
is still warm…
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