The Tourists
Now I only grasp raiments of that time
(remember….….cunning kiss, remember?)
On a pinnacle of Ios in a village of blind walls
buffeted by trade-winds Cyclades ripped
voices whisper through stone hollows,
cave mouths of rooms
‘rooms, do you want rooms
chambres, fine chambres, monsieur et madame?
Do not break yourselves with our secrets.’
Destitute of spirit all the same
dry arguments had followed us
from the drunkenness of the coast,
the lustre and dust of Athens,
the finality of Piraeus.
Searching the village,
blinded by
sun and decay
‘rooms… ….
halt such pursuits
for you are both pursued.’
On that little place of Christendom
two kouroi stretch for miles and miles
silenced by the rock’s infinite meditation
which predicts their blind love-making.
Page(s) 13
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