The Hours a Traveller Measures

The Expedition

Confounded by the dark as I stepped out
of the station, I was bound to end up
walking in circles. The braided aerial roots
of a fichus called to mind black-figured youths
on Attic slipware, the body is earth,
but the mind is fire - grave-goods to cushion
the journey - so whose reverie had I entered anyway?

In the groggy morning. Porto Piccolo. A step
away from the Dogana. Via Malta. The hump-backed
bridge into the old town. 'Even a paltry
thing is freighted with meaning if it flies
out of you.' Before leaving
I'd jotted down: a quotation is not an excerpt.
A quotation is a cicada.

It was a bit of a scramble to reach
...