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Chris Saitta May 30
Autumn is a Greek sea,
A summation of wet leaves,
Gathered wicks of sunset,
A hypocaust of warm water,
That lies beneath our feet,
Incense from the Sea of Crete,
Risen to the airy suggestive.

Autumn is a word in the mind, fallen leaf-like to the mouth,
How like the orange rind, our ancient past is shriveled under pillars.
“Hypocaust” is essentially a hollow space under the floor where a furnace then supplied heat to homes, a central heating system some references date back to Ancient Greece but certainly prevalent in Ancient Rome.
Chris Saitta Mar 31
So Herodotus muttered marble dust into his beard,
And foretold the white clay of the mule road,
And the whiskers of Greece grew long with legend.
The Histories (c. 430 BC) of Herodotus are widely regarded as the cornerstone of historical works in Western Culture.  Though it primarily documented the Greco-Persian Wars, its reliability has often been questioned, giving rise to the belief by some that it is a work of fable and legend rather than chronological accuracy.
Chris Saitta Feb 15
There is in sadness a sense of Fall, of spacious leprosy where crippled thought like the outmoded nymph dies behind each tree, and childlike peeks out to let at least childhood disbelieve in its unhappy end.
     There is in sadness, a branch that holds the once-upons, the happily-evers, and the destined-to-bes, a sweet find for all in grief.  Each stem lends momentum to their pluckings.
          There is in sadness, a young man who cherishes dead leaves.  He lately held waxen happiness and knew this as his permanence.
Chris Saitta Feb 7
A sigh is a barebacked rider, soundless along a sandy coast,
A candle tipped with starlight, wheeling in a cosmos of smoke,  
A firefly floating on the ruins of the wind like a winged gyroscope,
A skull in the stomach whose teeth are my own and breathes
With Babel’s thousand tongues telling fragrant untruths.
Chris Saitta Jan 10
So falls Greece, so falls Rome,
And in their bone-lipped tombs
Forever those still listening for love.
Chris Saitta Jan 10
Winter is the cold sleeping space
Between the blanket and the sky,
Between the legs falling asleep in warmth,
And the leaves turned to frost in twilight.
Chris Saitta Dec 2021
If I could love, I would take the best of marble and dove,
And craft her eyes like inlaid tombs in stone skyward flight.
Just so, the Egyptian khamsin wind, by way of Rhodes,
Alights with evenness on the trullo stone of Alberobello.
Just so, the weighing of the heart lies between marble and dove.
The weighing of the heart was part of the final judgement in the Egyptian journey to the afterlife where one’s deeds were weighed against the feather of the goddess Maat to determine if life had been honorable.
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