Poets

to begin with, Aphrodite was still there. I felt stupid, can't speak Greek, didn't know any of them. Then

yellow, its shovel so big that the world fits in. It's the god of all diggers on earth. This is the one they pray to with every clack-clack of their joints

looking out of the window, reassuring yourself that you exist, because the world outside exists. Inside there are books, perhaps the thought of a child you never had,