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ISSUE:  Winter 1995

We picnic by these bleached ruins
a few miles from the village
where we bought this rough
bread and cheese, this bottle
of wine shaped
like a Cycladic goddess.
Nearby is Homer’s Aegean
where bathers in their sculpted
flesh, their beauty, might have been
the models for the limbs
now broken, the faces
fallen from the frieze
of this temple whose ruins
we love because they show
how life is both continuous
and brief and must
be honored with good wine,
with bread and cheese.


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