A young Iguana in the Schefflera…
Rod. Melting. Forlorn.
Hidden , thankfully, by a pork pie hat
Bargained for in the Pirgos market of fleas
A severe case of the measles
Caused by actually slaughtered cats
in a Greek hut
By the sea made blue by Zeus
She covered my eyes with a rag torn from my
dirty shirt just in case I tried,
To look at the light.
Wax melting my feathers
From a blinding extra sun.
105 degrees of separation. A young cock.
Crete. A church. Orthodox.
Stolen candles
By a love risking endless perdition
Or Imprisonment
From her lips (made grey) by fear
There were at least contrived morning prayers
sacrosanct shaped by the innocent
Breath of thieves
Because the priests were lost on the Aegean
Spanking sacrilegious feet
I smell her skin
patchouli oil mixed with baby woman
I reached out in the dark
as her shadow mopped the sweat from my forehead
laughing at my vain attempts to stand and dance
In a waking fever dream
Three
Crones
in black scarves speaking
antecedent dialect
beyond resolute, stillborn, or dead
the dawn songs of Knossos or
ancient echoes from inside the caves
at Matala
Murmur and ululation
toothless they – placing hot shot glasses
filled with ouzo lit blue flame on my chest
Breaking the fever and converting me
into a Changling and a Skinwalker
a cant, a fractal memory
floating on the currents of Africa
above the sea as a speck of down
cackling at Icarus
For the Rest of Forever.