On Listening to Homer

Hypnotic wordscarry me acrossthe fences thatcorral daily thoughtto explore the denselywooded slope wheremushrooms grow on tall trees.Freed from cultivated fields,I creep forward,climbing a hillto map the vista,crawl into a caveto search for glyphs.There beyondthe reach of sunlight,in the realm of pale snakesand poison frogs,I see, by my trusty torch,an arrow, crude and yellow,directing me deeper.I tread a path of loose stones,feeling them tumblebeneath my boots.Wee live bats cling to the ceiling.I see the ashes of old fireswhere others have warmedthemselves, cooked a meal.More arrows, signs from othertravelers, guide mearound boulders to a trailworn smooth.Compelled by curiosity,calmed by the arrows,I find a stream, and beside it,a frayed book that falls opento the place the spine is broken.My flashlight movesover rich letteringon stained, thick pages.On one page, my eye picksletters from the florid script:L O V E.Thrilled to see the letter risefrom the twisted text,then disappointed that myfearsome journey has lednot to new and stunning prophesybut to the tired message ofall other soulful trips.Oh well.