Insomnia. Homer. Taut Canvas.

Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Half the catalogue of ships is mine:
that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line,
that once rose, out of Hellas.

To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes -
Foam of the gods on the heads of kings -
Where do you sail? What would the things
of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen?

The sea, or Homer - all moves by love-s glow.
Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent,
and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent,
and, surging, roars against my pillow.