Wind scours Skyros,

casting off whatever doesn’t blow her alive.

Roosters call into her,

releasing ritual morning battle cries-

two voices, 

one earthless,

one earthbound,

twist together in a marriage of grand and minute.

Cats own the streets below her gaping arms,

molding themselves into stone hollows,

low and restful,

knowing that to cling is to miss the beckoning..

Open opposite windows

and your room will fill with dervishes.

Drop it all,

unclasp fingers and release hold-

Spirit sings into nothing less.

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