Day 14

This morning, she can't find the map;
under the canopy of the taverna
a charm of finches cast a live shadow
She drinks retsina and brawls with the locals
an undead art, no longer feminine
sprawls on the jetty.
The ferry squares shoulders to the dock,
stretched in the convex, she's reflected back
uncouth, gone native, sexless as the plants
mirrored to the life back home.