Antiquity

A cleaven pot, brown, rising
In purple fragments from the earth
(Grey gristled, where the patterns
Swirl and dog in argus eyes) inside
A few shattered fragments of papyri,
Translated from the Greek, thus:

Lover, the swift borne of your hair
As the rising wind...pluck[ing] a harp
[...] and all the gods, Venus, Apollo:
Round folds of silk and the voluptuous
Texture of skies, he coiled, desiring.

When the lightning cleaves the pot into fragments,
And the nuanced mirage of the clouds wraps around
The ancient temples, twin pillars of Herakles,
The silvered marble of another time...these pots
Speak destinies, I find them each
In fragments, little cutting pieces of agate and jade
In consistence and cost, sharp enough to pluck blood
From the thirsty wound and drive deep
Into the pale skin of a shallow maiden. Parthenos, Athena
I was hunting you, your great pleated folds
Of blond hair falling like the dawn, ripping the sky
To pieces, little pieces swirling with the ravaging passage
Of time and the thunder-bolt lightning,
And the moss and the streams and the rocks.
I was singing eternal
After your shadow.

Do you hear the wind these days? All of them
Are greedy for difference and gain, and no one
Leaves touched in the gentle light of an adoring cove
In the overgrown gardens of time
That unsearchable, quaesiting marble, bending in towards herself
In voluptuous folds, all the scarlet of form and the gold
Of her hair:
Athena I could kiss your lips, your unworshipped lips
While the storm and the ravage of time is consuming the world,
Sweeping the continents into the seas.