Milos

The odeion's fragmented shell perched high above the sea.

We waited there all afternoon to hear the wind,

but nothing stirred: a solitary bird, a wren

piped among dry lilac twigs; some goatbells clinked

like stray notes from a xylophone;

cliffs reaffirmed the turning tide's eternal

tryst with gravity. We promised, in the muse's cochlea,

to honour poetry, to love as only poets love,

to leave each other free

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