.::eta Carinae::.

He is rocked to sleep by those

     waves of high

     and rolling lows.

     He comes and goes, he comes and goes.

whispers Picasso, spits out Van Goghs.

Reaching upriver

     while backward – he rows -

     while upward – he rose -

     crediting the whole game to dead heroes.

Speaking arpeggios or speaking in prose

     babel that blisters

     what eyesight once froze.

The back of his hand brushes the tip of his nose

     one iris splinters

     the other one glows.

He is sung to sleep by those

     canary songs and all-time lows

     while in the throes

     of what never shows

     He comes and goes, he comes and goes.

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