By | 1 January 1998

(Lattimore’s Iliad 1.1 )

A ream of cheap paper, I said to her,
you could sell me a ream of cheap paper.
The selfsame brand as pallets I have fed
into loud photocopying machines
when deforesting my way to the rent.
Pale as a promising relationship,
a film to be underwritten, that job;
the white manuscript takes off a blue dress,
curls back before the touch, offers up lips,
“Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son…”

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