So, was this Aeneas, who called on Jove to strike him dead, or else end his wanderings?  Was this Aeneas who wept on the deck of his ship?

Malcontent breads poetry as flies circle dungheaps and lay their larvae within.  

This was Aeneas, the cheerful man who wept on board his ship.  

Somewhere between College Park and Westland Row I sank for a moment into the earth.

This was Aeneas, the good.  

So, with the chimneys of the city as rosary beads, I shake my fist at Jove, and repeat the words of Aeneas.