Ithaca ( Ἰθάκη), the Dull Town
Your wife is there, your two-balled heir, and hound
Still true (like bone to brawn) behind his eyes
Destroyed with cataracts—but his snout’s bound
To ravel your armpit; he’s the surprise
That isn’t surprising when you return
Among the power suitors, culling coins
That smell like faithlessness. And now you burn
In Ithaca for things you’ve known, myrrhed loins
Of Circe, scent of hot stake driven through
The Cyclop’s eyeball, stench of steaming blood
Outside the walls of Troy, and wine-dark blue
Of seas you’ll never breathe again, all these cud
You’ll have to chew on now that you are in
This royal village. Boredom is its sin.