Nicorates stood, behind him in rows, down alleys,
of temples and coliseums and shrines, amid meat,
and yet his sandaled feet grew colder in wet mud
puddled by rain, relentless, in its noise, relentless,
among columns and cracks. Where curt rolled up
curses were poked and stuffed in for the Gods to
retrieve. But all day he stood. So well beyond his
déjà vu, which had gradually faded off years ago.
And though the alleys, the temples, the coliseums
and the shrines wondered from behind, Nicorates
said, through slow-seeping tears, this was the time
to call in his favours he’d, one day, ask from Pluto.