Greek EasterBury me, your sondemans. Warm sandleaves black duston our palms. We heaphis goosepimpled legs,damp swimsuit,soft belly, crossed arms.He laughs, wiggleshis toes out and webury them again. No,he says, bury meall the way. So we placea towel over his face,blanket it with grit.We can see sand rustlewhen he breathes.Do you want to come out?we ask. Nmph, he muffles.Perissa (Thira), 2006
April is Poetry Month. We’re celebrating here with a poem a day, by giving out poems like candy when you visit us, and discounting all poetry books by 10%. Because reading poetry is a fairly acceptable form of social deviance. And we’re all about that.