A GREEK BURIAL

I have buried
you in the hot field;
the furious choir
of flies is seeding your eyes.

The unguent sap
on the pine-brakes
beads like blood—it is
the smell of folly.
I do not
I do not I do not
recall you. I do not
remember
the freckle on your earlobe.

My legs stump
up the mountains’ trojan heights.
We were
the stifled whisper in the horse’s gut—now
I am the sack—and you
are the splayed blush
of the fort thrown open.
I am the Spartan, you
the palace and the plunder.

And if I cross this ridge,
I will no longer recall
no longer regret
the balloon-chested flesh I left
in your moat.

I saw you, I mustered,
and now my banners
stipple your clammy shore.
But my ships are gone.