A maze, into which
eyes, peering,
must adjust: a door
latched, and another,
then one left open for
the as-yet timid
to enter, dim-lit
as the dead, wandering,
girded in white chitons,
as much the uniform
here as silence:
the cul-de-sac
these men seek
for thundering hearts,
each trailing his thread
of yesterdays, to ravel
a way out into light,
to whatever he thought he was
before fingers began
to smell of semen and sweat,
before his throat swelled
in unenunciated prayer,
that gurgle of remembering before
the past snaps like string.
from The Burning of TroyFind it in the library
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2006
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