History without any dates

History without any dates
 
 The clouds are not the story I am
of the rocks I am
with the tide I am
in my Greek village I am
history without any dates
 
My friend is bedridden and
we speak unseen to each other
through his open window he asks
of the world beyond he wants
to give me his spear gun
the Hellenic sun falling into
the fine dark sea
 
I devour the fish but merely
sip the amber retsina
my tear-stained eyes beguile
the nightfall of amethyst and
smoky quartz
 
Don’t open that trunk of music!
My whole life is in there.
 
Bees guzzle the death of cyclamens
at odds with the olive wind
dark stars eat each other like chapels
eat the rock the candles the frescoes
the dusk

I smell ouzo in these pages.
 
The rocks have beautiful faces.