The House of Agamemnon
In the house of Agamemnon a corpse light burns
as he lies abed and dreams of darkness
and the thrust of flashing bronze,
the clash of spear and shield,
and gurgling cries of men.
In death, he dreams of death,
those he has meted out in petulance,
the regality of law and war -
no justice but his own.
In his mind, he is immortal,
though he felt the blows that laid him out upon his pyre,
he feels them no more.
In the house of Agamemnon
the corpse light dances round his royal frame
reflected in those eyes that stare so blindly at the dark
and flickers merrily upon the coin between his lips.
Clytemnestra looks upon his ruin and sighs,
as her lover sighs, contentedly. Her sister sits
and sews a robe for Menelaus.
In the house of Agamemnon it is always late,
where sons and sisters long for a mother's and a lover's end,
though it was a sister caused a sister's death.
See? The night lights, ever burning, never turning,
when bare footsteps on cold stone, in haste, depart
and run away to sea, to be pursued,
up to the gates, by the command of fate.
Apollo will not intervene.
Wicks untrimmed, the lamps burn smokily,
the yellow flames a-flicker in light night airs,
and the bitter carbon scent of them
taints the sepulchral gloom
in the house of Agamemnon.
