Phryne Ii
Greece you are waiting for me.
With white speechless marbles
within the August heat.
With sullen and loveless areopagites
carving my name on sea-shells.
Hypereides, you liar.
Praxiteles, oh so blind.
You Xenocrates, son of the *****.
And me that I was thought
I would return bearing banners
to rebuild your Thebes.
A roar under the earth.
Ashes in the wind.
Athens rises in the sky
and charges against me.
Why should I be afraid?
Why should I run for a shelter?
No!
I don’t want you to cover my eyes.
I want to see the terror in yours,
when after the execution
you’ll find me at the exit,
waiting for you
with a molotov cocktail in my hands.
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