Troy
 
Who knew those light rooms, that ancient somewhere,
its joints rotting?  There were no photos of
the place, just a myth, a thread into rope.
What restraint and fear among the broken
militia?  Or the hollow of Helen's
bed that would swallow you up like Scylla?
Were the laden sounds of enemy boats
coasting military intelligence? 
 
Didn't some God speak, fighting back his hair,
about a kidnapping avenged, or
the nature of human-rights?   This lifted
from bric-a-brac: a round belt buckle in
the attic from some island store.  A horse
found, made from love or a prospect of war?