Achilles Lost


The shells 
were cannonading
when he died in my arms,
blood setting the sun down.

Night or darkness now
and I cannot find his face again.
It is lost, I search for it, stumble,
and lose my way.

October
is rich again, exploding.
Fifty Octobers have burst the air.
I inhale it all anew, leaves

bomb me, sap is still,
muttering of the Earth is mute.
I remember all the Octobers;
one tears about me now,

but his face is lost.
How can I find his face again?

 

Copyright © 2003 Tom Sheehan