Lethe
                        A fable

 Where winds the river of forgetfulness
In tranquil fields of far Arsinoë,
Languishing dreamers breathe the sultry air
Until the sun is down; and then they go,
Lighting their candles for the pilgrimage
To the south, to the far south, to Lidos,
A dry and dusty place but for the tears -
Watering nothing, nourishing nothing -
Howling down from the pale stromatolites
That stand imprisoned in that lightless place.

In the guttering glare
Of their failing tapers,
Whirling and writhing,
The dreamers, bereft
Of sense or sensation
Dance to the sorrow
Of the prisoners’ despair;
And would dance until dawn,
If dawning would come.
But Lidos is lightless.

And should I live in fair Arsinoë,
Beside the river of forgetfulness,
Cosseted against the ancient torture
Of what is best no longer remembered,
Departing only for the nightly dance?
In the formless, amnesic, sunny dreams,
What would I lose of authenticity
Writhing and whirling in the memory,
Manufacturing the historic self
In the grieving dust of barren Lidos?

January 2025