kythera
1.
this bed is damp across the road raise voices as the taverna closes she shifts under his arm pale-painted narrow room high and black-raftered
in the hall outside someone shuffles falls about coughs vehemently beside the door not like a knock, not a threat
2.
The bays are heelprints, hoofmarks or like where pastry's been punched out, or . . .
from this hidden garden in the ruined battlement we watch the cafe, the taverna,
the closed houses, odd little beasties that are people, working, wiping their mouths, talking.
It's all a long way down. We lie in the walls' shelter, drowse where the sun
sprawls through bushes aching with young fragrance and insects drone and thrum. No doubt
it's the same down there, but not so perfect; the world is amazing, but far too below. We laze,
we watch without need, without desire. Is this also perhaps what gods do?
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