One night in Samos —
as an aside to an ongoing discussion
about spirituality and lust,
about elevating the body above
its inclination towards another,
and with no reference at all
to Pythagoras —
Angel Ivo Garcia crunches possibilities,
as the two of us sit at a table in the square
by the waterfront,
no doubt with a carafe of Retsina or Samiana
and two glasses
which we fill with wine
and our respective loneliness:
'See that girl over there',
he says, pointing to a girl sitting alone
at another table
wrapped in a shawl of summer beauty
and her thoughts,
'She could be the one',
and indeed she could, I think, stealing glances,
'but you will never know',
afraid as I am, holding on to my glass,
my chair, the solid ground beneath,
tongue no match for my thoughts,
the fire of my imagination licking the night
while I sit, once more,
rooted to the spot.
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