Aeneas leans his hand against a palm tree, Rough to the touch and real—his gods appear As dreams, as voices, mists, hallucinations. Walking by Dido’s palace, Aeneas stops, Listens for flutes and drums, a song he knows, Carried and dropped—the sky lit up with flares And antiaircraft weapons. Sandstone scrapes Across his fingers. Burnt fields […]
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