POEM

 

Just now the sun proffers to me 

a glass of elderberry wine.

Then a glass of mead.

I shut the eyes and sip.

I open the eyes: the world ain't there anymore,

not even my books and the sea.

Circe and Helen smirked

staring at my solitude. 

I bit a golden apple.

And the vast Time gets distorted 

and dwindles

to become a blade of grass.

Time small as a pebble.