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Greece without You
A russet convoy snakes up the parched mountain slope,
towards a grove of sacred pines they crawl,
a procession of little larvae punks, ready to devour
those trees so like the ones in our forest,
when you spotted Ursa Major and dawdled in the starlit breeze.
Theseus, my reluctant conqueror.
The boys re-enact the race at the stadium in the midday blaze.
One says his thing is a metre long, we just can't see it
because he coils it up and my boyfriend is a tramp
who haunts the stairs of the cathedral.
I think of your tailored blazer and make no reply.
In Athens, viewing marble acanthus tendrils on an ancient market square,
one tells me you are vicious and I chuckle,
squinting in the setting sun.
They don't know who you are.
Evenings of juvenile intoxication, the drunk slither around me in the chilly hotel lobby.
Room "eikosi ena" and the stoic terracotta-mounted ferns watch their gyrations.
One sends me to police an orgy, thankless task for the virgin wh**e.
But the cats howl more loudly than the revellers and the bin men arrive in our street at two,
so sleep is not an option and I guard the solitary room.
Did I write you a postcard? I don't remember.
I know you wrote from London years later,
a few terse words on the go:
"Everything is going according to plan.
Take care. See you soon."