- 1934-
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. 

More by Stephen Sandy

Parking Lot

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.