Death in Hellas (a poem about Barack Obama's last international journey as President, to Greece)
Over the Atlantic, and over Mare Nostrum,
if it is still nostrum, the airship sailed,
and when the rubber kissed the tarmac
on an old, old Attic field,
there was weeping of women in many cities.
Rocks of ages sternly loomed
and olive trees drooped with the advancing year.
Mr. Tsipras sat with his guest and talked technology,
while dirty Cynics in the streets screamed or slept.
The gods of finance, bratty children of classical liberalism,
are never satiate for long. Which hundred Cretan,
or Macedonian, or Epirote, children to garland now?
Full moon through wintry clouds.