Lowestoft Chronicle 20 (Winter 2014).




I found the car key.

Maybe I ought to have sped to the port.

Thanks to a taxi, you were there

even ahead of time awaiting the ferry.


Instead, I braved the switchbacks,

narrow, gear-strippingly steep,

up that treeless rock

whose peak is St. Simeon’s perch.


I pictured you, umbrellaed, gazing the harbor.

Lean out from under the shade and shoot your gaze

up to the blue-domed church.

Is somebody up there waving?


I meant to distance myself

as far as I could from the port of return,

spirit from body. Away, though,

hadn’t we relished our bodies!


Out in the bay where a fisherman

netted an icon depicting the Virgin,

beside her whitewashed church

on the severed tip of a finger of stone


I’d fished for you with my eyes,

then handled ashore love’s shivering body,

which ached for another, the friction,

to redden its blue-lipped flame.


Who would have dreamed there’d be above it all

a nimbus of flies! Somebody, yes,

was waving and, bitten as if by sparks,

shooing flies.