Hunger

You’re the wraith in the plain

where the wind plays a lonely note.

You have said the words, bathed

in milk midstream, made

plain your hunger to the forest

of your forefathers. But   

                                                               

the seal remains unbroken.

The seer has foreseen it;

your life line is long and strong

but the cosmos holds captive your star –

your empty note wails across the barren. 

Imagining Him Happy

What is waking

for Sisyphus? who knows by now

that the boulder will roll down again,

that he must roll it up the hill again.

He no longer curses the stupidity

of the gods, their infantility.

He’s traded in his

apathy for ambition –

a blind boiling for a perfect trip.

Eventually, you gather that the grind

is as eternal as the blackness of space, that

the small mercy of stars

shall not stir the enormity of your sky. And

from its cold stone you cull

a twisted pleasure, the cool

tickle of sweat

down your back in the blackness.