The Acropolis
She was saying nothing
with stones. The sun
barely warmed her blood.
Once a century she dreams
but they are shadows of fishes,
she sleeps deeply under trees.
He dreams of trees, surrounded
by stone. He passes sunlight
over himself with one small beam,
running a matchbook
over his rib. When she
smells water, his sky
goes dark. His only escape
will be from the roof
to the ark, stowed
with the ballast, when she sails upriver
as far as she can go.
Broc Rossell