Aniseed has a sinful taste;
at your elbow a woman’s voice
like I imagine the voice of ghosts,
demanding food. She has no grace

but, diseased and blind of an eye
and heavy with habitual dolour
listlessly finds you and …


Christodoulos moves, and shakes
his seven chins. He is that freak
a successful alchemist, and makes
God knows how much a week.

Out of Christodoulosʼ attic,
full of smoke and smells, emerge
soldiers like ants, with antsʼ erratic
gestures seek …