back ~ home ~ up ~ next


 


 

 

Photograph of the Temple of Hercules, Agrigento

 

At the site, my chief thought was to pose

my daughter, standing there where these eight shafts

support a frieze of air, for photographs;

and I forgot to look for the pale ghosts

who built the honey fluted ribs that rose

from the stone spine of a sleeping god, his roof

blue sky.  She stands between columns that dwarf

her nine years, toes the backbone of Kronos'

grandson, in a red dress:  Having come

that far, two thousand years, I might have tried

to picture in the Doric monochrome

a washed-out earth whose first blue was undyed

heaven; for whom blood was the prime redó

whose gods, overexposed, lie dormant but not dead.

 

Deborah Warren

 

 

(c) 1998; originally printed in the Cumberland Poetry
Review.
  Reprinted by permission of the author.

Background by
Lewis Eaton


back ~ home ~ up ~ next