If you laid all the twinned souls
of this earth end to end it wouldn’t span a river bridge.
But the blooms push out like flattened hands
over the whole earth’s span.

Carob blooms bear the heavy musk
of rot, to take the blackflies in;
deadly oleanders lip at my window
white as matrons’ hats.
And each with a stem that mills like Charon's pole
into the dim evening.
All the warships of Thucydides
could not breathe air into such blooms as these.

Hot wind trembles over the bridge, under your
ankles. I could not believe the air could hold
so many as these,
putting their tongues out into the night.