Even if Mortal, Transient

 

Without certain sights, 

some lines—perhaps 

even soul dries up, 

 

no fountains flow 

in a Nymphaeum, 

where a Goddess 

bends her thighs— 

 

as at Sagalassos, 

Turkey, Pisidia’s 

first city, high 

on its rim, 

 

the Cascade House 

over the spring

near Neon’s Library 

 

on Gelincik Dağı, 

Hill of Poppies 

(or Weasels, Stoats)— 

 

gods desiccate, 

turn to ghosts 

of Eastern deserts, 

 

and sans aesthesis, 

nous, Slavic um, 

mind’s art and grace 

for beauty, truth, 

 

turn Phaedrus’ brew— 

Lethe’s oblivion, 

leaden speech, 

parched soul seeds 

(Phaedrus 274e, 276a). 

 

Yet rain might hand 

me down a line, 

memory divine 

of lost arcs— 

 

a sudden sight 

winks knowingly, 

beauty strikes 

that single track 

 

to join the soul’s 

own minting— 

fresh new line.