if the iliad must begin with rage, then i must admit that our age is not so peaceful either. there are people who have told me they hate me in a language i do not understand, and on some days, would not want to. dogs who shit in my steps. tea kettles which will burn it all down if i leave them without my affection. how my sofa sits into obesity. how it swallows hunger. hairs hang as caterpillars and butterflies alike. look how little the dust becomes once aloft. can i hold the head in the air? does the thought get lost with each follicle? you will remind me years later, maddened by the snowless winter and the worldwide blood that would be spilled for a good dinner, that the odyssey is a better book anyways. who said it was, i’ll ask. you are not sure, voice becoming lost in the echo of a window that too tells tales, though only the wind listens in untranslatable anger.