Where it's rubbed out, start there, where it's torn
where something like a burn in cloth the hot
metal pressed too long, forgotten

Little caskets of my former dreams,
I feed you back into the Ganges
of living perceptions, extravagant

Furtive, that's the version I want.
With eyes averted. Downcast, a little sly.

He knows about the destruction caused by reaction:
emotional wounds, self-inflicted, a repeated torture
he brings about, trying to interrogate the self

Morgan saw Athena's face in the crowd
at the Athens International Airport

Travelers without passports may become
the norm but this Englishman remains
in Greece so Morgan asks how he lost it.

He crouches on the Eames-like throne
His backbone exposed to the sacred tapestry

He doesn’t want anyone to tell him
what color to paint his house nor
how to design it. He grows tired

Who can explain the tears in his eyes, realizing
the historical moment crossing into the present,
mountains behind the orchestra at Epidaurus,

To thrash myself with the knowledge, not
the feeling, that my lover Chris has taken
an Alfred the Great in a very Anglo-Saxon way?