The last of the immortals
chortles softly walking by
                                    Because he knows the sun
 
Touching her wreath (it’s myrtle
it makes her fertile) she sighs
                                    won’t ever rise on Hell

She doesn’t hurtle she glides
through the invisible portal

                                   when elsewhere morning comes
 
to her bolthole in the sky.
                                    the devil rings a bell.

A N N E X    P R E S S     2 0 1 4 

TOM  MANDEL       A  SAILOR'S  KNOT