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.