Penelope says she has a dream vision of Odysseus’

Homecoming but that all such intimations issue

From two gates, one of horn which gives unvarnished

Truth, and one of ivory which gives deceptive wish-

Fulfilments and complicated lies. The dream of her man’s

Return, she thinks, comes through ivory, although he stands

Before her as she says so, in disguise. So is she mistaken

About which gate it is, or is her version of the dream gates

Too simple because too binary? I don’t sleep well because

I am tortured by dreams that I would dearly love to be false

But they come through gates of fact, stories of my past

Actions and inactions, depicted in all their nastiness

By a sceptical investigator. Oh, to wake up and be able

To reject them as fictions! The burden of them is intolerable,

but real and must be carried. Yet, like Penelope who accepted

the many stories that were Odysseus, as connected

narratives from the gates of fiction to bring him home,

could I accept the stories of my past as fictive wisdom,

A sequence of septic selves I wove and wore until I learned

Enough humility to be not much more than a man who yearns

For his own bed and lady. Homer knew his story ended

On a poor rocky island with nothing more to be defended.