Mr. Shamra

Wheels of Ugarit poetry drum in my mind, and I slush in them, feeling massaged by cuneiform constancies, dreaming myself assigned to the task of sorting my son’s remains from the belly of the bird, or my own remains, and the gods’ remains up in the belly of some higher Zoroastrian bird, my eyes, full of the same nuts as Ugarit, dilated with wine, dunked off Byblos, enchanted by elements.