The spark has been
quenched like a firefly
whose belly has been emptied
of light.
No more gold for me
says the fly.
No more chartreuse eyes
that wink at the moon.
But Jason knows he
will find the fleece
in its beaming rays
hung in an ancient grove.
A demagnetized compass
points everywhere
and nowhere.
So, the Argonauts sail
with no eyes to guide them.
Pulled north then south
by a foamy exuberance
akin to lust –
a lust for glitter, for froth
or a thin stripe of unknown gold
writing its name in the rock.
His eye stained by ink
that runs in the veins
of the unhumble
our navigator predicts success.
Sown teeth of dragons
will bring to me the glory
of a rare element he says.
Look at the way
his eyebrows arch north
in their earnest excitement.
A portrait of purpose he is.
Skeletons that dance with swords
cannot keep his desires at bay!
Our eyelids closed
to mysteries of ore,
we ask for direction
where there is none.
Artistry and defunct gods
are lost in the
old geography, Jason –
bees swim in the air
above dumb hieroglyphs
pointing this way and that.
You won’t get there.
A poverty of heroic adjectives
describes our quest.
But we follow you.
We spelunk the caves
of old themes
using new tongues.
A tedious and interminable search
for the fleece.
The real meaning.
