1
Because we can’t go to the lovers’ Trojan tombs,
we find ourselves here—off the path—the legions
of cypress at our backs.
Nearby, the Theban skeletons rest
unearthed, still hand-in-hand. A wartime miracle,
that we still see their bodies twined. We stand at the stone lion’s feet,
close enough to see sharp cracks through its body—
the cuts a sign of restoration or wear—
but we cannot get lost in significance we can’t understand…
Back to these bodies. Small pockmarks in their bones,
giving way to deeper gashes; your hand at my back.
2
In the Hesperides’ garden west of the world, Heracles holds
the heavens for a golden apple. In the picture books
my father reads me, there are no apples. Instead, eternal life
blossoms on the branches of a peach tree every three thousand years.
3
In Athens, we watch a student troupe
perform a tragic Turandot:
the oriental masks faux-antique, the scene
ungraspable.
We return to our hotel
overlooking the Aegean. I
cannot sleep. The night is warm,
the window open. A shrink-wrapped I Ching
on the table, for your concert
next week: Cage’s indeterminate score. The moon ripples
in my wine-dark glass, and I
wonder how we ended here. But I’ve not rented room
to hide my doubts. I love you;
I am subject to your European imagination.
—Tyler King (The Margins)