The Plundering of Circe

Circe had no pleasure in pigs.
Pigs, wolves, nor fawning
Lions. She sang in our language
And, beautiful, waited for quality.

Every month they came
Struggling up from the cove.
The great sea-light behind them.
Each time maybe a world.

Season after season.
Dinner after dinner.
And always at the first measures
Of lust, became themselves.

Odysseus? A known liar.
A resort darling. Untouchable.