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It is eternally noontime in
South Beach 'til the sun sets
And then immediately night.
Although deepest hours sparkle
water-like and dapple
Ceramic flanks in showers.

Shimmering South Beach
upon the thighs of Helen,
and then the War begins
and moves down Collins
to rest sipping wine outside,
under the streetlights.
And the garish flare of fender
chrome and bangles.

The whinny of sophists
as they cruise the Gymnasiums
and the Porticoes looking for
Boys wrestling in the dust,
their bodies entwined like

I wonder whether they
sacrifice at all anymore;
whether they search through
Entrails, finding meaning in
the sausage beneath goat's teats.

From the low heat, there are
No Atonists to scourge the
Lusty boys from abduction, from
the dance of the thumping hearts
As long as sun burns through
the sublimations of the north
and renders it sultry and open
Like Helen's legs before the
Heros killed themselves all for
the glory of the Stories to be told.

Whence came the gentle breeze
to the newest riviera, and have
these desirous folk lured Zeus
there to share wine as the light
dies and the cars pass heavily
like the wild stallions reined to
Fiery Chariots, to cross the sky
Yalping in the voice of possession?

And indulgence and dancing mingle
in the dust, pressing to genitals
and coming up padded white.

©1995 Chris Abraham