HELOT

Oh but
the hot city
and memory.
you wouldn’t lie to me
but I
would lie.

the mirror was a hard tunnel
buried fat so near
my old face.
the young hoplites crashed
by out the window,
‘cross the asphalt,
and my plume
withered;
and I
was filled
with heavy things.

our trees
by the church,
pink blossoms like
a fresh
bone of want.
but I
would lie.