ASHES

 

my own ashes well kept

 in a transparent urn

of heartwood and amber.

Shall I scatter them from a cliff

in Patmos or maybe in Corfu?

perhaps they might turn into a white trireme

 sailing away to the sun. Perhaps

I'll be expecting so long for the arrival

that a war in Troy will break out again; 

this time Priam would be the victorious one

and Ulysses crushed by his own wooden horse.

and Helen up to the creek sick of Paris

would end up jumping on the white trireme

seaworthy for the distant Egypt.

 patiently patiently I'd be expecting: the world

has defeated me but not the freedom

of my wandering ashes.