Cried to by name and rank:
son of, smiter of, deliverer from.
Too much the legend to wear a sandwich board
or placard, a murmur armoring the vain,
astringent soul. Breadcrumbs ess-oh-essed
the passage in, a brittle crust which snapped
like ladder rungs after a decade’s long rot.
Coins small as lice and the local gendarme
watching just how far false silver
might be carried. Pluto’s satellite,
without whom none would dare
the nighttime voyage.
The tail of a red star flicks the black
water, lightly now, pushed off lightly
from the shore.