Of Salamis

A sun blind as Elymas oversees
the lilting sway while stateless children pick
and sell you on in pieces of mosaic.
Your heads are gone, and this long it took

to find all lemons are bitter, in breaks
along the south coast where dead hives prove
that tourists leave no ghosts
not least in Famagusta, nor stay in love.

Gilt-edged Cyprus stole over your posts,
like Barnabas pilloried in golden silt;
swimming in the ruins of Salamis
we cut our feet on what remains.