At Sounion

of a morning woven over stone I bump camera then smock. We share a mist wherein I must refuse, no dreamy photographs desired: my- self and nothing. Stavros, he of ghosty smock, is ticked at me.                 It rises as a litany                 to an imagined sun. I jab along the slippery rocks for cooler idioms, finally to divine                 lovers (Byron's one) who have scratched their hearts to ruins. Spooners weave through our academies                 shunning all the moves to set their dreaming steps to music more appropriate.                 Or so I later feel with ouzo at the shivering cafe before sun fairly rockets through               and temple can assert in flame,                 informing wave on wave of rain the wisdom of arrangment past                 this opalescent glass.