84.

The myth of his tongue

the two portals of dream

keep his mask fast to his face

the cast of the sun, the spume

dancing across him, the gates

of horn and ivory on either side

as he returns from the war

the gorgeous illusions, perdurable truths

tugging at him, the image of her

before him. The homecoming

is always there between tears

and blood. His arrows would

no longer bleed invention

or fabrication — her eyes

burn in his brain, his fingers trembling.