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 are ploughed with salt.
In Rome, boxes of dates from Libya,
Sicilian blood oranges, olive oil
In shades of green to gold—clusters of grapes
Circled by flies with iridescent wings—
Scipio’s legionnaires are followed by vultures.
The past circles the future, silver drones
Hover like clouds over Ilium’s bricks, Anchises
A sack of grain on Aeneas’s shoulders, Creusa,
Who couldn’t keep up, lost in the smoke and shadows,
Dido, her hair scented with jasmine blossoms,
Lost in the smoke and shadows, the date palms
Heavy with fruit, wind carrying the scent
Of jasmine, ash, salt, and automobile
Exhaust—a woman’s face that turns away.