Ιn a room in central Athens

half-drawn blinds, light in strips, floating

dust, and viscous, roosting curtains.

Shadows lurk in corners, jump out

in the afternoon rattling the house.

A red, phosphorescent telephone

illuminates with each call from the beyond.

Long cord on the terrazzo (yellow

with grey chips) from the fitted carpet

to the lounge to the hallway to the kitchen

(solid marble sink, feta cheese

stuck in the strainer, smell of green soap)

the light from the fridge left half-open.

The voice of butter crying in the wilderness.

Outside the window, lunatic asylum TV antennas

blather all together, but each one yells its own.

And every nightfall, the windows clatter

in remote and yellow conversations

lest they graze the scorching, frozen boulevards.

Locked up people, listening to locked-up people.