Poseidon sat at his desk, going over his accounts. The administration of all the waters gave him endless work. He could have had as many assistants as he wanted, and indeed he had quite a number, but since he took his job very seriously he insisted on going through all the accounts again himself, and so his assistants were of little help to him. It cannot be said that he enjoyed the work; he carried it out simply because it was assigned to him; indeed he had frequently applied for what he called more cheerful work, but whenever various suggestions were put to him it turned out that nothing suited him so well as his present employment. Needless to say, it was very difficult to find him another job. After all, he could not possibly be put in charge of one particular ocean. Quite apart from the fact that in this case, the work involved would not be less, only more petty, the great Poseidon could hold only a superior position. And when he was offered a post unrelated to the waters, the very idea made him feel sick, his divine breath came short and his brazen chest began to heave. As a matter of fact, no-one took his troubles very seriously; when a mighty man complains one must pretend to yield, however hopeless the case may seem. No-one ever really considered relieving Poseidon of his position; he had been destined to be God of the Seas since time immemorial, and that was how it had to remain.
What annoyed him most- and this was the chief cause of the discontent with his job- was to learn of the rumours that were circulating about him; for instance, that he was constantly cruising through the waves with his trident. Instead of which, here he was sitting in the depths of the world’s ocean endlessly going over the accounts, an occasional journey to Jupiter being the only interruption of the monotony, a journey moreover from which he invariably returned in a furious temper. As a result he had hardly seen the oceans, save fleetingly during his hasty ascent to Olympus, and had never really sailed upon them. He used to say that he was postponing this until the end of the world, for then there might come a quiet moment when, just before the end and having gone through the last account, he could still make a quick little tour.
I want you, and you are not here. I pause
in this garden, breathing the colour thought is before language into still air. Even your name is a pale ghost, and though I exhale it again and again, it will not stay with me. Tonight I make you up, imagine you, your movements clearer than the words I have you say you said before.
Wherever you are now, inside me head you fix me with a look, standing here while cool late light dissolves into the earth. I have got your mouth wrong, but still it smiles. I hold you closer, miles away inventing love, until the calls of nightjars interrupt and turn what was to come, was certain, into memory. The stars are filming us for no one.