Black Flowers

He said – long ago – that myth was dead. He meant it. “Myth is dead!” “Long live myth!” They are playing out something. Legendary. Picks up her glass. She has a glass, with coffee, ice and milk in it. Thinks about the refugees on the road. Road to what, to where? With nothing but their clothes on their backs. Mythic and literal. How to speak about them and why? How to speak to them. To keep them in mind. In our minds. “Bless you and keep you,” so the prayer says.