CARGO FROM CUMAE
Latium, 1164 B.C.
Nisus sighed as the shore lifted
With the easing of the tide before his eyes.
Younger, he'd have been under,
Working the wreck, allowing
Muscle and sheer will
To offset mere depth.
The boat shifted beneath his feet,
And the Trojan diver bowed his head --
Gray locks cropped against
The cloy, clammy, clinging weeds
Of long cold nereid fingers
And hotly wanton nereid needs.
Scars he touched and counted breaths . . . .
What youth ignores, age hoards.
Each foot ebbing meant
Longer labor, greater benefits
Below. Both lungs and eyes
Less exercised by the low tides
Granted -- too soon denied --
By Diana and the marches of her moon.
Nisus surveyed his small domain,
This modest craft, consecrated
By Neptune's priest; nets; ropes;
Reeds; knives; hooks; weights;
A clay cup; worn sponges;
And that flask of olive oil,
Diver's mystery, for sight below . . . .
(an old fragment, newly polished a bit)
MD
