poem index

poet

Stephen Sandy

by this poet

poem
Cretan farmers still press their olives. Swallow
retsina, tend their flocks. Our scholars know
—oracular computers tell them so—

it’s just as the Minoans did. Do we
know them then, the Minoans? Is their debris
ours too? Rather consider to what degree

warehouse palaces are dazzlements,
and through the dark
poem
Hard to believe the racket geese make, squabbling, 
holding a confab in the dark--pitch dark to him 
padding back to check the lights; yes, the windows 
are dark.
      But that honking down on the pond, like angry 
taxis, stops him: late geese on their way--he thinks-- 
homeward. But geese are home, wherever