Ulysses
His head reels—gulls beneath the mackerel sky
prey on schools of pilchards, sprats, and herrings.
He holds the helm fast, tries to catch his bearings
in the mirror of a bloodshot eye.
A tempest bellows, “All clouds lead to Rome.
Light pours down on both the preyed and preying.”
Grateful for the dark, the light and greying,
he spurns his ache and calls the moment home.
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