It’s a different kind of heat on Koufonissia,
sea-tempered, those same waves
Odysseus clipped when rolling around
the Mediterranean making a name for himself.
The only colors in our pallette are
blue and white: the sky and salt, blood
before it leaves the body and the color your
skin turns right afterward.
Not that we don’t try to
fight it with suntans
or making each other blush,
we just know what’s hopeless,
that there should be any other way
to live than momentarily and indefinitely,
all else forgotten in the translucent
shallows of a crumbling city by the sea.
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