With my glasses on I see these marks are words.
With my glasses off I thought those sticks were people.
I was sure those floating white things were fluffed herds
of helium sheep taut-tethered to a steeple.
With my glasses on I see that the spire’s a tower
filled with drinkers emptying glasses as they strive
to honour Bacchus who looked like a swine,
I thought, but I see, now that he’s passed on,
that I must revise my vision of his traits.
The gulls, nee sheep, alight like broken glass on
the blurred blue water of Altea’s straits.