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Her hair bobbed
And a smile on her heart-shaped face,
Muscles welded into Ilissan hocus-pocus,
Has no sandals nor school –
Only a charcoal,
A half- clothed Greek,
A glorious bounding Atena
In the midst of a freevolois sweatshirted decade,
A figure from the Elysian marbles,
She lives in an old house
With stone walls
and a flat, tiled roof.
I observe how her draped cloth
Carved into the marble
Flowed and wrapped
Around her body
In motion.
I finally took a pilgrimage to Greece,
To touch the sacred stones of the Mykines,
To steep myself in the ancient mysteries
Of art and architecture,
While at midnight,
Long after all
Good bakhlava- selling bakers
Were in bed,
She gave the ouzo evenings
That cost a thousand of full moons.