Morgan saw Athena's face in the crowd
at the Athens International Airport
where the Chaos became a genesis for

Roadside grasses are seen
to vary, stem and thistledown:
pale straw or light brown,

If you’d seen
        lightning nets in clear water, 
midnight blue beyond the reefs;

Barrel bombs. Chlorine gas. Tomahawks.
The crowd balks
at the little lute sleeping through the news.

We make pilgrimages, we pay tribute,
as its backward-glancing heroine
is a painter’s tribute to a poet’s stanzas.

We were between armor and mummies 
                on the ground floor,
weighing preservation in a tin 

Birds don’t care that the land is ugly,
decorated with handsome cattle
and advertisements for elk jerky

There should be a healthy trade 
in sandbags. Cement should be 
our chief export. Some of it’s made 

On leftovers ana breakfast   like the spleenish wulf the wéstenas chase. 

He sets out hungry,   nose in the wind, up the wulfhleoþu. 

After a luckless trek,   he gilleþ; and gaunt companions answer 

Watching a boneless nymph’s 
half-hearted resurrection
from a spout in the pavement