three … [by] seasons implored

To begin, forget the wanderings of eachfamous wanderer. Odysseus is right out, as isblind Oedipus and his daughter. Rex will be acommon theme, or basileus, if you prefer. Wecan play with the language: translate loosely;put everything in the vocative, as if a supplicationfor rain. In song, we never get anything right.The things we pass on to our children: ramparts;contrabass trombone; bloodguilt. The hangingexons of each gene. Because no sequenceof words completes the fragment of grass …mist, three … [by] seasons implored will have to suffice.An ending. Or beginning, which isn’texactly what we set out to discuss. The interim,waiting as the old man snarls stage right of eachphrase, guttural; gutted from the inside out. He turnsan opaque eye to the sun, instinctively, like a hawkthat halts its wings remembering these brief morningthermals that hold up the sky like Corinthian columns—then rides the arris of its slender flutes.