Quiet your limbs, Hyperion.
The wild wrath of your
flailing slaps breath from our lungs,
addles the clearest thinking among us.
The waters glints, threatening
combustion. We are not
capricious, knowing one stray crack
in the siphon will rout our reclaimed
asylum: power. Does that smack
of hubris? When Prometheus stole
fire from Zeus, were you, like your upstart
king, enraged? The few prophets left
cite omens of anger, but they also suffer
Cassandra’s bane. Tonight I walk
among the exhausted, hunting
breezes that recall wine-dark sea.
I dream of a hero sailing
the currents, his black ship raising
spray from ancient depths. Beneath
the burning stars, streetlights like embers,
I invoke a rescued dawn and I sing.
From: http://poetsgulfcoast.wordpress.com/2010/06/08/two-poems-by-michele-battiste/
Date: 2010
By: Michele Battiste (19??- )