LITTLE islands out at sea, on the horizon
keep suddenly showing a
whiteness, a flash and a furl, a hail
of something coming, ships a-sail from over the
rim of the sea.
And
every time, it is ships, it is ships
it is ships of Cnossos coming, out of the
morning and the sea,
it is Aegean ships, and men with archaic pointed beards
coming out of the Eastern
end.
But it is
far-off foam.
And an ocean liner, going east, like a small beetle
walking the edge
is
leaving a long thread of dark smoke
like a bad smell.