On Hydra

We’ll take water and oranges, leave the din
of trippery from the boat just come in,
the waiting donkeys, cats all bone and skin,
on the dry winding road out of town start to sing.

Above small-windowed white houses we’ll sing,
climb to the convent on the mountain,
our Parnassus, Mount Baldy, switchbacking
through pines, the oracle ravens are croaking.

A thousand stone steps to the top for our sins
find water and Delight left out in a tin,
redstarts on the walls, butterflies in the wind,
the cloister swept clean, but no one in.

And return to our room, full of longing,
pull the curtain, light a candle in a sea urchin
shell, and lie still through the hot afternoon
of smoke and oil, weak-kneed, filled to the brim.

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