Author:

Oia, Santorini

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That familiar,
deep redness of the sunset:
Is it the sunset or is it blood?
A question posed by the sun, or a slaughter?

The Bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street

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It’s no longer there…
a “We’ve Moved” sign placed up high…
some things can’t be moved immediately or afterwards
such as the pages, folded at the edges, to be read less
than to be recollected,
such as the queue in front of the cash register
such as the backbones of saints
I search for the bookshop on Saint Andrew’s Street…
terribly ill by its absence
after all, this is where the hours passed
their hours with me, and the hours search insistently
for that which can’t be moved or migrated,
which oppresses and suspends generations…

Foretaste

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A little further from the light cast by the lamp there begins another world, an unknown world – who has ever gone there? who has every returned from there? – and then there are nights – ah! how many adventures there are dreams, so many that you life becomes insignificant (and hence dangerous) –

City of London

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Here books and bookshops
have a distinct fragrance
like incense rising
offering itself
to a venerable pious congregation.

Here people and palaces
have an ancient architecture
Roman and Romanesque at once
not led astray by flights of abstraction
only trusting in the everyday and concrete
joyfully signing in the underground
at peak hour
or biting their lips to not let in
the winter

slide

Snow

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The snow that falls outside!
a God
like the ice-vendor of death
with eyes
bloodshot from fever

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The Hotel “Hope”

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A little out from Athens there is
the Hotel “HOPE”. Each night
in this Hotel, at midnight,
two ghosts cry. This bad luck
drives the hotel manager to despair,
for as you might appreciate
these goings-on drive customers away

The Vigil

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Everyone is asleep
and I lie awake
I thread silver moons
through a golden string
and I wait for dawn
for the birth
of a new god

A Short Story

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The café where I drink my coffee
is empty
only I exist
and so the café is completely empty