TRIREME
There, wrecked in the depths of the cool, blue Aegean’s
Heart, the bronzed hand of Venus
Still reaches for her son;
And Cupid, broken by the fall from evening
And the star’s warm grace, and by the loss
Of arrows and their bow’s full strength,
Can only nod
Within the tide’s soft thrust, too weak
Too tired now, by centuries of slow
Degeneration and rust,
By all that proselytizing and dehumanizing mess,
To grasp the mythic metal of that reach, the subtle lure
Of fingers that have long since forgot
Everything
But what only a mother may forever recall.