The Fall Of Troy Poem by Rachel Hadas

Sing now the heavy furniture of the fall,
the journey's ending. Strong Aeneas bears
deep on his shoulders all the dark wood chairs
and tables of destruction. Bruising, blunt,
they force his feet on up the war-scraped hills
past raped dead temples. All Achilles kills
litters the trail of sofa legs with other
endings of houses. Further up, gods sit
changing their own upholsteries of deceit,
ordaining shelves and benches as the goal
of his dim voyage. Sometimes arrows drawn
on chair backs point the way they must go on,
signs that some corridor of destiny
is reserving him a threshold. Aeneas weeps
at wind or passion, but steadfastly keeps
carrying battered merchandise marked ROME
in one direction, pondering it all.