It wasn’t stone but original sin Sisyphus tried
to heave beyond the tug of guilt,
and recurrence wasn’t the absurd part
because that is how we are –
sinning the same sin over and over,
and thinking the lift or expiation will absolve us.
That summer when I thought I’d driven far enough away,
it was déjà vu hauled me back again –
Dark rains fell violently on the waves
and recalled your vicious imprecations.
The sky betrayed then teased you to distraction.
You became the weather you reproved.
It must have been some curse carved those cliffs
out of water – In this charcoal weather
I imagine something chilling out of Dore or Piranesi:
Immense colonnades and a sculpted frieze,
bridges arching towards a molten center, fiery wheels,
a prison and stairways into mountains of stone.
It is Easter on the island and sculpted boulders
wall up the tombs, but two have been rolled back –
one to reveal a risen myth, the other finds Ophelia
perfectly laid out and awaiting her lover’s kiss …
But I’m no Romeo to sup a cup like that.The pull is on. I can feel it. I will surely fall again.