Classic Poem

Your breasts in the mirror,
still life of gourds. Bossed shields.
The white-washed room peeled,
flaked, wooden shutters opened
on the small harbour quay -
a restaurateur tipped his garbage
casually into the Mediterranean.
A night of fish bones, cigarette butts,
bobbed in an oily slick. West,
into shadow, AntÆnoÜs anchored off
the headland, outboard silenced,
dynamite exploding like an octopus
under a shoal of fish beneath.