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Originally from
1990
At Sounion
of a morning woven over stone
I bump camera then smock.
We share a mist
wherein I must refuse, no
dreamy photographs desired: my-
self and nothing. Stavros, he
of ghosty smock, is ticked at me.
It rises as a litany
to an imagined sun.
I jab along the slippery rocks
for cooler idioms,
finally to divine
lovers (Byron's one)
who have scratched their hearts to ruins.
Spooners weave through our academies
shunning all the moves to set
their dreaming steps to music
more appropriate.
Or so I later feel with ouzo
at the shivering cafe
before sun fairly rockets through
and temple can assert in flame,
informing wave on wave of rain
the wisdom of arrangment past
this opalescent glass.
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