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I would fly to the coast of apples.
—Euripides, translated by Frederick Morgan
When I flew to the coast of ghosts,
there, on the white branch, sat Euripides.
At once, I tried to peel the skin
off my own anxiety. Euripides,
I said, you with the glorious name,
what do you want with apples
now? Flying, I can understand.
Although there are problems enough.
I’ve flown every month
for a year. Too often my flight was detoured
to the coast of bullets, the coast of salt,
the coast of abandoned tires—
which is not much better than flying
to the coast of thistles
but preferable to the coast of briars
next to the coast of radioactive waste.
At last when I stopped talking
Euripides peered down and said to me:
I bet the wings were the hardest part.
That, and the rest of the horse.
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