Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas. br Half the catalogue of ships is mine: br that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line, br that once rose, out of Hellas. br br To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes – br Foam of the gods on the heads of kings – br Where do you sail? What would the things br of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen? br br The sea, or Homer – all moves by love’s glow. br Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent, br and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent, br and, surging, roars against my pillow.