The woman came out naked, her hair wrapped in a towel.
She didn't look at the clock. It wasn't that.
I will bring this poem to an end
with an eyelash on your cheek
or a butterfly snarled in your hair.
You passed me a glass of water
into which you had secretly
dipped your finger.
They fed him honey, wine and cheese. They took him
to the arcades. In the hall of mirrors he saw
the young god, naked, his boots laced with gold.
Each night, as you close your eyes, the unnameable
stands naked by your bed. It gazes
down at you and tells you everything.
Imagine the restaurant, halogen bright, the clashof voices, the clash of dishes. Then silence as she
removes her shoes. As she begins to dance.
David Harsent, In Secret: Versions of Yannis Ritsos, Enitharmon, 2012