1. Ikaria

 He remembered his body.
Thick thighs stood him shoulder high,
fists pounded out the one shape
of his life. I asked him how
the dying was. Three fingers
pursed for the orthodox sign
jabbed the points of garlic cloves

through white sheets of baby fat
into the leg of spring lamb
—now dressed for the flame. The room
smelled; as I kissed his forehead,
he babbled of battleships,
ocean liners, the days waiters
served water without being asked.

2. View from, the Temple at Nas

Even the Greeks paid for this view.
The urge to climb and throw rocks,
to break through skulls to the thoughts
below, goes way back. Sure, friends

may admire your apartment's
river view, but you will see—
it is how hard the rock falls,
how impregnable you are.

This temple had location:
stream end of a mountain slit,
bottom of a sandy cove.
But the priestess understood

the beliefs protecting her
from climbing men, from thrown stones.
Cliff tavernas now see to
throwing away the empties.

Nudists spotting me way off
appeared, guardians of the site.
My orienting glances
at their public privacy

shamed me in their eyes.
Breasts looked away, groins folded
to spate my feelings, in view
of my imposed banishment.

At least no slightly bloated
columns, giving perspective
to my life, remained. My clothes
marking me a sightseer,

expected to act the part,
I took heart, mounted what had been
steps—no pronaos to question
me, only scored founding stones.

A nude man—his belly seemed
pregnant—threw affronted looks
that said, "If only I had
Artemis's power." I smiled

at his trust that I would know
the myth, sense I intruded,
yet believe I'd never stood
outside its analogies.