Matala by Night
On Crete, the day
belonged to the sun.
I walked with sandaled Minoans
on the rocky strand by morning,
climbed the craggy peaks
to dive from Matala’s cliffs in the noon’s fiery light,
and swam the big blue waters
with the midday sun’s brilliance warming the depths of my muscles.
Apollo’s sun shone and filled my eyes with the Greek ideals,
and even dusk’s red haze fluttered
in the pages of my drowsy book
carried on a breath of museful wind.
But the night
belonged to Anna,
the one the muses had kissed
but I could not.
The speckled sky and the envious moon
were lost from my affected eyes
for she outshone them all.
More desirable was she
than Eden’s apple
or Paris’ Helen.
Anna’s face had not launched a thousand ships,
but brought mine to harbor
in Matala by night.