We.

We

I think about you and I and where we stand.
Holding beneath the unplumbable depths of the night sky.
On Mykonos they say you can see Orion especially well.
Standing, we are by the water all night long.
How blue can this water be before it stops being fishable?
The white crispness of the statues on the hill is staring down.
We could wander through the Paraportiani wearing only red.
The windmills turning in the distance face the autumn.
Change now, and we find ourselves buried alive but sheathed in night.
Petros the pelican watches our porch as the curtain breeze-ruffled breathes.