worsened
after 3,000 years,
robbed
outside
the roped off seminary,
breathing
like a starved skunk
near a brick churchyard.

Circe
nodded,
imagining
the ashen paint
of the burnt shipwreck,
inspiring smoke up
smells
munching
and rattling
the immaculate
aid
of the bespectacled crows
from Nep tunic arenas,
donating sponges
off the enscribed beaches
of the Ganges.

I asked Mr. Wizard
in Bern
for my chart
of hidden accounts
and in Berlin
for ashen bread.

The puffing mariner
Oddysseus
yearned
for his island home.