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Prayer Lord, set me a table in Byzantium: not the rose-colored queen of the Bosphorus, not the city of jewelled liturgies, but the drain where the scourings of empire collect. Give me a rough wooden bench and a goblet of thick southern wine that smacks of honey and dust in a tavern on some twisted lane away from the sea, where a plump dancing girl of uncertain antecedents clicks the reptilian scales of her castanets, her gaze weighing my limbs like dubious florins, while a one-eyed Cappadocian in the corner thoughtfully fingers his knife. Lord, I don't ask for much, only a fate I can handle. ================================================== Jon Corelis [log in to unmask] http://www.geocities.com/joncpoetics ================================================== _________________________________________________________________ Tired of spam? Get advanced junk mail protection with MSN 8. http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail