Everything, O monks, is burning.
—Buddha

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,
where we’ve obtained on credit cards
one tapestry of silky fleece,
two icons, three amphora shards.

Two noble truths:  That life is pain
and that our cravings are the cause.
But here we’ve all grown young again
and laughter routs the cosmic laws.

On Delos, once a treasure town,
gray lizards flick the drying dust
where once ambitious Greeks burned down
in anger, ignorance and lust.

Our ocean-going steel cocoon
spins out the silk of innocence.
Only the water and the moon
bring whispers of impermanence.

The sun melts down in summer gold
like Strega in a cocktail glass.
The moon and moon-drawn tides are old
and, like the Myrmidons, will pass.

We build up shelves against the tide:
our luxuries, our work-out tapes.
But slowly we burn down inside
and find there are no fire escapes.