"...Such money renders back
In payment he who is on Earth too daring."
Sweeney said to me,
"A lot of words are spoken here,
But not much is said."
He twisted and turned the ring in his hand,
Fingers tracing the band round and
Round and round
And round and
*
"They called me 'cold'
Even after the hellfire I reigned
And rained
And reigned.
But to be fair, I was the only one burned."
*
The rancid scent of burning flesh
And of battles won
And of battles lost,
The sea, the sand, the heat,
Cordite and blood,
A blooming chrysanthemum,
And fear.
*
The rustle of a dry, dead geranium
And the rasp of whiskers against a collar.
The pounding onslaught of
Harmony and consonance
And that velvety substance
Left by a too-sudden silence.
*
The flickering lamp -
A shadow of itself
Giving voice to the anamnesis.
Memory sings
Behind eyes I dare not meet in -
*
Sweeney's fingers
Round and round and
Round and round
And
Round and
It falls,
Bounces once,
Again,
Skitters into the corner.
I see Sweeney hesitate before picking it up -
For an instant,
A flicker of something, something -
And I cannot help but wonder
If he is really happy,
And if, given the option,
Sisyphus would much rather die.
