In front of the Acropolis rock, lies the old part of the city...
It's a great pleasure walking on these streets where the ancient meets the old and where you can forget the new...Horizon
Man-made wings sweep golden grids
against the glowing cage that stretches east
from Venice to Knidos.
These are early days and
if they oscillate in harmony,
conformed to the edges of a single thought,
that thought is marked for our illumination.
We may find ourselves sinking/we've always
been sinking into its hidden contours,
casting nets of silvered photons
in mockery of lesser light.
If no objections arise when the pale moon
greets Helios on such mornings, or if
improbable planes of simultaneous reflection
defy customary astronomies,
I don't think we will be surprised.
You know it has always been that way:
we may touch the Alps with curious fingers
from any unsafe distance, grazing peaked edges
grown solid, our fingers tracing
maps, the maps of tools and time
on stones that stand in now or former temples
that have weathered well.
Of these it was said we would mark out truth;
ore wrested from subterranean forays into
strip-mined culture; its subtext forged from
illusion and the burnished metal of ancient myth,
its finite edges brittle and suffused with saffron
Knowing this, we stand at the precipice,
at a high, stony lookout, over seas of
ancient treachery and faulty memory,
wing-fanned air, gentle against cheek and lash,
swaying in a silence made of wind, wave and breath;
we look into the glittered distance, straining to know,
toward a vanishing point we seek when weary, for rest,
or perspective, for assurance.
In that sun-splashed morning, with nets
of silvered photons cast beyond our idea of it,
we look into the distance, unblinded
by simultaneous reflection.
We look to discover
there is no horizon
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