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Irises Probably
Gleaming dirndl of meat
among the familiar map of strange islands:
Serifos, and Thira and Paros.
Their dusty horizons
cloaked with weeds and trash
white pumice and goats.
I calculate how
long may I trudge up the path
to her throne,
The world's most perfect food:
the Greek Salad is an offering.
Salty, bitter, dry and moist
with a spit of fish curled
like a secret message
from the oracle.
For one moment, this Thursday May night
slows its cycle
to a limpid dream. Spring flowers flutter past.
Irises, probably. Bicycles at night
in the West Village appear
devoid of rider, wheels flicker.
A man is angrily tearing at his meat:
yells about a dog and the Mafia. Then,
improbably, calls himself young and stupid.
God, I'm glad the rain stopped, finally.
A violet climacteric builds
up the sky and from the harbor
ships are loaded.
It is the local, the street, the new sandals
that tonight, I eye.
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