They called Odin the Great Fury,
he drank only red wine,
spoke only in poetry.
Fury has Odin energy, Odin the trismegistus,
three times master. Also there’s Hermes, the Greek
God. And Thoth, the Egyptian. Three masters.

I’m Circe, she said. You’re Hermes.
Hermes left her.
She had Odysseus.
Odysseus was called Nobody. He left her.
For Calypso. Another nymph, another witch.
He left her, for Penelope. His homecoming
Queen, and his son. He has a kingdom.
I’ll give you many sons. What are they called? You name them.
Are you Penelope?
I don’t know.
The Odyssey ends eventually. It does take time
to come home.
In due time.
It can take for ever.
For ever is for ever. For ever is not that long.
Promise.
Promise. I’m going to pluck flowers, and
all their petals, purposing them to the Pledge.

Odin just drank wine and wrote poetry all day.
Hermes was just fluttering around.
Odysseus was just cunning and voyaging.

To which end?

Penelope pushes away the pressing suitors.
Telemachos, the pious son, polishing the throne.
Prayers send to sea, like scrolls in glass bottles
tossed in the torrents of the deep and dark blue.

Her mad piercing blue eyes enrapture.
Immanent inspiration invokes.
The silver slipper gets slipped off, or on, and
off.
For ever in suspension.