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.
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