I am twenty-one years old and I have saved two lives— a girl whose throat closed despite her and a boy who thought he had no other choice. By all accounts, I am a heroine, a savior, some divine-palmed human spread thin among peers who are the same. The same— who fear the dark as fully as I and need the quiet, sometimes, when the din of all the mouths talking at once becomes more heavy than loud. Be gentle, love, approach me slowly— do not touch my shoulder when my eyes turn to glass and know that I hate to be hugged because your arms will trap my fear somewhere within me. I suppose there’s a reason no one writes what happened to Odysseus and how the gods felt after their story ended.
A bird in an aurulent billed mud-face,Living as a four foot two inch dragon in a San Franciscan cave, Lifts off from a hot breathed murmur of Gideon. Even in night the whole grandeur of movement Soaking in red beeping heart-pangs Fasten to the thrusts of his arms. This post of vainglory was the opening of the year. In July's open pores, On a spatial plateau of Dodonian oak. The Penguin Unveils his weakened voice. Flattening into a wide arrow Draped from Carina he Sails Westward. Barefooted through the Anavros Molting under deep helplessness and melancholia. With his inlaid eyes faced askance The penguin broods Among the day's songs Cast into the poetry of the lyre, Stretched upwards from Paradise Bay to Colchis, Where his ebony wings Soak into the palms of Peleus Suffering only where the arrows have flung. Downside up, with children in a pocket of blood, Among supergigantic siren songs and muse poems Sewing teeth into a spot of Earth Races towards a column of toppling strakes.
An Interpretation of the Search For the Golden Fleece