for Vicente Aleixandre 

In a dark pool hall
                             ghosts sip sweet coffee.
An amputee smokes,
                            whistles as he eyeballs
And shoots for the pocket,
                              He wins an ouzo
And hops outside
                              to the King’s Park of Zappeion
Where the sun falls in the still
                              rooms of a bird’s ear,
But no one walks
                              no marble ghost on the hill.
The abandoned Parthenon,
                              is sleepy.
I meander a bit
                              on cloudy sand
Out to the olive trees
                              who wrestle an ax.
Herons rise in a terror
                              from the big guns.
Cemeteries cannot
                              care about the dead
Or feel the dark drum
                              in the cypresses.
The dead walk about
                             but fail to show.
The amputee walks about
                             twirling worry beads
And wears a carnation
                             in his kouros lips
All morning in memory
                             of hostages in trucks.