Cretan farmers still press their olives. Swallow retsina, tend their flocks. Our scholars know —oracular computers tell them so— it’s just as the Minoans did. Do we know them then, the Minoans? Is their debris ours too? Rather consider to what degree warehouse palaces are dazzlements, and through the dark mullions of romance see for once that we see nothing, nothing.
Stephen Sandy - 1934-
Hard to believe the racket geese make, squabbling, holding a confab in the dark--pitch dark to him padding back to check the lights; yes, the windows are dark. But that honking down on the pond, like angry taxis, stops him: late geese on their way--he thinks-- homeward. But geese are home, wherever. A continent. Are acting without accomplices; no past or future to know. That squawky banter is an irremediable thing. He makes for his car, the office shut down. Now someone passes him. They know each other-- each speaks with mild surprise the other's name, no more. And heads his separate way across the dark.