by Vassilis Zambaras
Aye to this
Thin waning crescent
In early morning sky,
The morrow, which gleaming
Sickle is to glean
Which mourned-for eye?
Now it’s clear that white-
Bearded coughing old
Man my bike almost ran over
Holding a sickle in his right hand and dangling
A fag from his nicotine-stained left
Could not have been death incarnate,
So why did that image of him rising abruptly up
Through the darkness of morning scare
The living daylights out of me?
It sounds like that
Feeling’s overtaken you again—
A caterpillar’s treading, flexing
Its luminous pulsating muscles
On the curve of your wrist—
Your pulse is being taken
By twilight again.
Near brimming candlelit cemetery
Under a waning winter moon—
Ring of barrels emptied of lime
Next to an ashen shovel, light.
MELIGALAS Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—5/30/11—Goodnight.