Abysmal Fullness

—Salonika

Amid the familiar, ubiquitous

wafts of cigarette smoke, amid the din

and incessant clamor of beggars’ hands

rattling their few coins in their paper cups,

amid high Romani voices lifted

in lament—all of this amid the thick

scents of fish, of spice, coffee, and chilled blood

like a cloud pressing damp upon our rough

agora—I learned in Salonika

finally to still my …