(snippets from Ulysses — a found poem)
I am another now
and yet not all unkind,
he said in a finical sweet voice,
showing his white teeth
about to rise in the air,
no-one here to hear their zeal was vain.
Vain patience to heap and hoard,
tomahawks aglitter on their breasts.
Do you know what I’m going to tell you?
Grey horror seared his flesh.
Folding the page into his pocket, he turned
and made a sign to a typesetter.
He handed the sheet silently over
the dirty glass
with a sigh,
in mourning for all
who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.