For the Lakkos Project
The ancient road ends at the fort,
the sea, where urban fishermen long
for a boat and a breeze. The cats have
fleas and an untamed gaze, the cars
squeeze through the streets, while ladies
slow before too many shoe stores,
passing unpicked lemons on the trees.
Prayer beads click in the hands of men,
the anarchists answer with graffiti.
The ferry line’s “Minoan,” don’t forget.
A labyrinth is part of the story.
Round a corner into Lakkos
and the rubble turns to murals,
post-modern odes to musicians
and whores, a painted shore and its sea.
“The Crisis” spared the small thrills: coffee
cigarettes, generosity. So we
smoke too much and wake up undone
from a mix of wine and raki.
One day glows amber with African
dust and tiny daffodils are sold
in the streets. Most days, the only
news I want is from the sun on
the wall, the sun on the sea.