I still get the Greek words for gift and tree
confused. Δώρο και δέντρο–Really,
I know the difference. Only
when the words come off my tongue,
they come off wrong. Lying here,
I think my body knows better:
The cypress trees jutting out above
the old church of the Metamorphosis,
close-knit branches, swaying over terra-
cotta roof tiles, separate to reveal
a city of birds, whose flight alights,
ignites white flames of their undersides.
These flashes and reflections
through my thick warped windowpane
recall Sequoia, Painted Desert,
Brays Bayou’s flickering high waters,
far-off, long-lost places returning
until a memory of the future
comes too: this star-lit room where all I have
to offer is this bare breast
as the liturgy from
the next-door church floods in
through wide-open windows.