Homeric

Cold cry from the last page of  the dictionary,

name with a knife in it, and the knife

italic against the throat

till you fall into so heavy a sleep — 

sleep made of asterisks and cattle,

the herd just a black scarf

against snow — you can’t begin to guess

where the old world went. Now there are only two

choices, says the tale, and neither is good.

Hence an axe above each separate entrance

as the hero becomes hardly a voice

and the sad dogs appear on the screen.

Then there is a thin, high scraping.

Then no noise of any sort at all.