Belly swelling slightly under crossed arms,
left over right, nose rising like the prow
of a stone ship steering by the stars on
a night passage among the Cyclades.
Her knees are just bent, her feet are en pointe:
a pose without repose, neither standing
nor lying, not of this world. Here, we lock
our knees, spread our legs, and lower our heads
against the sharp wind blowing off the north
of Naxos, clawing at clothes and hair as if
to render us naked and bald as stone
for our return trip across that dark sea.
