The Sirens sing in each man’s odyssey,
in every woman’s role as Penelope,
faithful to themselves by all accounts:
old myths woven and those unwoven
memories spun yarn remembers
in the yet unfinished shrouds
in which we cloak ourselves, cast
into the present tense a tick-at-a-time.
No grace reliving past temptations
or heroics, those flashes dimming
with mundane routines of earthly
jobs, of quiet talk with our gods.