ISSUE: Winter 2006
In lieu of the breakfast I knew he couldn’t
Chew, we spent the morning smelling
Brief flowers and giving a try at dangling
Our agonies to passersby.
“I’ve never really minded my situation,”
He clarified for the sake of all exaggerated
Tortures. “It’s always been the impossible,
Those Keats-like almosts that I find
So sublime. The water still dries at the touch
Of my lips, and yes, the grapes still
Wither on the vine. But my cousin in Crete
Wrote me last week saying I’ve since become
An adjective and a verb. And now Sisyphus,
Lonely noun that he is, is too jealous
To push—all of Hades is envious. Such stuff
Fills my stomach; such things satisfy my thirst.”
