These are the same stairs, unnoticed, essential,
submerged in shadow bath; and that is the same
queen's-blood carpet, embracing the floor and chairs
in a sprawl of affection. The same immortal room,
month after year and decade after lifetime
(boiled in memory if demolished in structure),
home to shifting summer crowds and swelling now,
now with delirious grins and squealing cries
from an Athens of children. Plump cheeks flushed,
scant necks damp, for the sweltering throb of
rushing seas and dozing shores (another ache,
gold-green, saline) floats through all four portals,
canceled blazing white by July. Beyond the
blind screen hills tumble away, the shade of
caterpillars and moss, revived by the sudden
scarlet wings of laughter, joy folding and unfolding.