the Greeks lead me past the night cafes of Alexandria,
the road's desolation, that hideous war,
to the girl in the olive garden on Crete,
to Ithaka, and back to Alexandria
—you
interrupted me,
with the wings of pale shoulders
leaving your white tank-top like birds,
hunched down in the poetry section
to read the titles
distracted
as you stood
the curve of your back, your narrow waist
and flaring hips, the way your shirt's fabric
hugged to you no less than my gaze
listing in the summer heat strolled on
as I turned back to the Greeks,
listless, unechoed, unpursued