Naxian Marble Chunks on an Orange Truck

This isn’t the driver’s first trip onto the ferry.
The squares, spray-painted in Greek, “LARGE”.

Newly formed,
we shared this knowledge:

             This marble comes from Naxos.
             The wheel was not invented yet.

We joke about it, but the narrow staircase up the island tells us that
this was our physical strength. Our angular shoulders, our arms.

In formation,
an idea as pure as the newly chiseled rock.

We weren’t happy with the way it was.
This fear of solely being, but also this is the most holy!

A part of the timeline. A cache of our souls,
deliberately broken. Blessed.

These theories we agree to, interject hmm.
Squeeze the belief that we are.

The landscape was altered for fun.
And we carried votives to stop the dead from touching us in our dreams.

We looted from each other, only to buy back what belonged to us.
Dug up from the ground, the former forest.