Issue 147, Summer 1998
While others were discussing
the styles of metopes,
I lay down in the Temple of Zeus
and shut my eyes.
Behind the shut eyes,
the metopes were what I saw:
a giant tugged on the arrow in his head;
a son's corpse wasted on a funeral bed ;
a centaur crashed into a pit;
a wrestler cut off his head to honor his father;
and everywhere were grieving women,
tearing at their hair.