The Greek truth –
is it not every man’s truth,
that the written word of the poet
in its finality, will be,
as we will come to know it,
our only trusted ally? …
(her) bitten fingernails reap the scalp,
religiously peeling at raw skin. Blood
falls, like pellets into winter water.
as a day ages, its waste journeys down the river,
pleasing thirsty lips of a forgotten village,
not far from the olive tree where she stands.