for Chris R.
I do not speak Greek.
Near the port wrinkled men hunt
octopus in heavy boots. It starts to rain
in October. And yes the wind
feels different.
In one word? This place
is absent. Forgotten gods hold hands with children.
I’ve watched them play on colored swing sets.
Unlike myself, they cannot leave.
So much came before the marble ruins
I hiked past in September.
A Parosian temple. A bent thistle.
Goat dropping near clear water.
You ask for one sentence, but
I’ll leave with these fragments:
stray dogs, blurry nights, black beaches.
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