Surely Somewhere on a Nameless Dusty Turkish Hill One May Still Happen upon a Muse in a Peplos Pinned

Trekking through Anatolia’s goat-rugged tracks
one finds many a ruin of ancient towns
strewn across the rocks amid tufts of grass,
long already stripped of any gushing fount

and roofs, or bared, unburied marble statuettes—
while, in the heat, strumming cicada gangs
hoot and toot their horns and restless legs
in cacophonic orchestras that drone just right.

And here and there and with a bit of luck,
you could find a pillar or a lonely door
with no walls sidewise for wings left,

but I still see a flap of red or deep violet
at those shoulders pinned as she pats
on the temple taut-out tambourine…