Philoctetes

I guess I’ll call it sickness gone You remember - my ankle’s stinking wound The two-portaled cave and dichroic cup The work of a sorry craftsman As Milton descended Perpendicular, swift as thought, Negation’s serpent flew Time’s arrow loosed from a silver bow Foully cast upon this solitude To live without deliverance Bewildered by each want as it rises In this sick estate on Lemnos’ cape I put myself into hiding Like the corpse of a beast The shadow of a vapor In this narrow house, free from desire There are three Heracles - the god, the shade, the stranger from Colonia Commodiana Who in this mirror is calling To commit an old bow to new war To harrow Ilion Within the hylic void Within October’s horse Within the weaver’s womb But now my friends you’re here Like sunlight following sleep As did Kronos’ children All that proceeds returns The coming night unweaves the work of day Ten years of pain, ten years of homecoming The underearth is past, the horizon future The sea like a mirror shaking