Kataraktis           If you always live alone, whose feet will you wash?           —Saint Basil It was just another fishing village where we didn’t spend the rest of our lives together, a half moon of houses white with spray around a harbor.                                          Fallen acorns rotted by the roadside on the way out, up into the steep, shadowy hills. A goat nibbled a bush to the quick, oblivious to the quivering notes of the last songs from birds settling into the oaks.                                         My fingers turned the sticky throttle of the motorbike for more gas, your cheek pressed against the scruff of my neck, our bodies leaned out as one on curves.                               They hadn’t gone their separate ways yet, our bodies. We hadn’t pitched our days into a deep well where night could come fill its jugs with darkness. The light glancing on either of us still glanced on both of us.                                         We paused at the summit. The town below, where we didn’t grow old, or humble, or simple, was no bigger than a palm, a pale hand cupping itself for a drink of water.
	by Joe Smith