Ithaca

by jdavidcharles

To come to rest again, if only
for a time, on such sands—left
behind the depths of insatiable
questioning, the vessels of
transport tossed aside to deeper
waters. Sure, I fucked it up,
you fucked it up, who hasn’t,
really, fucked it all up from
time to time? Isn’t that what
return means—to find yourself
facing that way, open, alone,
finally and totally fucked dry,
a mere by-product awoken
in a stream, unsure of this
haunted feeling of familiarity
as you drift among the stones,
downward, toward the sea?

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