Greek Reader Poem by Bernard Henrie

I stopped learning Greek
one afternoon, closed
the reader,
set the five drachma change
into my vest pocket.

A mercury light moving
on the windows following
the earth's curve
as women follow ancient horsemen.
Turnstiles stop and lock,
museums empty, the statue
Ammmonis, Dead at Twenty-Nine,
in 610 falls dark, unlaced shoes
of the watchman slip off. Yellowing
window shades roll shut.
The drowsing clock speaks

in monotone. The peregrine shooed
to a hooded cage. Lucid calm opens
in the white powder of a lackluster
hour, dust and pollen rest. Dryness
enters the mouth, the puffed divan
settles, the armoire doors coast open,
voices rise in a foreign tongue.

If I could put my feelings into words
the sole sentence in blond letters
on white spools of paper.

I stammer, claw like an insect
crossing the beam of a search light.