Mad Ithaca
Chronicles of an endgame sour the day,
the last cormorant glides home half-asleep.
mauve tapering headland not faraway
Is darker; the treachery still indiscrete.
I trail past the quiet, dark caravan,
chest pounding with sorrow; tried to walk it
off but it don’t go – a woe-begotten
rotten vixen’s smashed my fragile heart.
On the rise, I make up the chintzy night scene
of Port Ithaca’s tourist hostelries.
Thronging poached Grockles being obscene
Python Lee Jacksons in a broken dream
Grimbeau 