An account of books 16-19 of the Iliad by Homer. br br Down on your knees, Achilles. Farther down. br Now forward on your hands and put your face into the dirt, br And scrub it to and fro. br Grief has you by the hair with one br And with the forceps of its other hand br Uses your mouth to trowel the dogshit up; br Watches you lift your arms to Heaven; and then br Pounces and screws your nose into the filth. br Gods have plucked drawstrings from your head, br And from the templates of your upper lip br Modelled their bows. br Not now. Not since br Your grieving reaches out and pistol-whips br That envied face, until br Frightened to bear your black, backbreaking agony alone, br You sank, throat back, thrown back, your voice br Thrown out across the sea to reach your Source.