Troia
Ruined Troy lay promiscuous among
findspot and tell, breastworks and ditches
Like nine gold bracelets at a Turkish wedding
in twenty-two karats, mined outside Pergamum.
Schliemann’s trench was a wound through the whole thing:
at the Scaean Gate he was off by twelve hundred years,
where the mourning doves sang compulsively,
vulgar-throated. In the music’s pause
near two stone griffins, a feral tabby
warmed herself on a broken plinth, almond blossom
made a blizzard in the orchard nearby,
and the spokes of wild fennel crossed with the sun’s rays.
The Scamander River was nowhere to be seen,
having wandered off across
the rich alluvial plain. Nothing more would happen,
that was the spirit and the sum:
nothing would happen here ever again –
that, a taste of fennel, and the goat bells’ tinnitus.
- Karl Kirchwey
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