I say, the Trojan War was over a woman,
was over a breakable body, 70% ocean.
Soaked in love and led upon the temple steps
to be drained– and stained. And soft peach-skin,
peeled back across her thighs. Swelled, with these eyes
like flûtes falling from hands, like an operatic climax…
Sometimes I am too alike to ruins. Time to revisit them.