Marcus, seated alone in the vacant
amphitheatre, scratches on parchment
in Koiné Greek, feels he’s turned a vagrant
by Pannonia’s campaign, estrangement
leading him to meditate on Danube’s
blue luster, consider everlasting
time—birth to death a rapid interlude
interrupting infinite void. Fasting
until dusk, he’ll dine on salmon, green grapes
and water. Will lie silent in still night’s
vast presence, think of Faustina—soft nape
of her neck, captive eyes. He’ll pray the fight
ends soon, can guide his men home by summer.
He’ll close his eyes, whisper words of Homer.
Roger Armbrust
June 12, 2013
