repaired the trireme, managed to subdue
their longing to linger in Lemnian sand,
and rowed to sea once more (the second-hand
reports of Lesbian beauties might’ve kept
the ship’s morale afloat). When fair winds swept
them soon to Antissa, spring was almost done,
and green leaves labored to absorb the sun,
yet red leaves tumbled everywhere, inscribed
with finely punctured letters, which described
all things to come. Hupakoë tracked down
the origin of these leaves: above the town,
a hill divulged a cavern, where the head
divulged his neck wound, tilting on his bed,
his altar, and his bier: an oak tree’s stump.
Hupakoë saw jaundiced catkins clump
where hair once curled. Orpheus couldn’t blink
and only stopped his prophecy to drink
wine purpling the oak beneath him. What he spoke
turned red in air and fluttered, and would choke
the cave if priests did not remove it. Wind
spread his predictions wide. The purple-chinned
poet required no praise or offerings:
just hearing Minos, he could see the king’s