Guggenheim Money Poem by Bernard Henrie

The Guggenheim money ran out
leaving me broke on the island
of Salamis with half-wild dogs;

I spy from railing slats on a girl
with her burly brothers whose
name I do not know.

Her hooded shadow stirs me
like passages from Homer.

I say goodbye to the island;
ruffled fish deaf with waves
and blind from the ceaseless glare
of green water; anise-flavored ouzo
glimmering beside swollen tomatoes
and a pale block of Feta cheese.

I swim through the Trojan columns,
air bubbles from sea plants cooling
in the white sea caps.

The drone of an ancient water taxi
fetching my suitcase and typewriter,
the glazed sun an enameled tooth.