I never thought to spend my life alone.
On many nights my fingers conjured hands
that never grazed this curve, that secret moss
whose dampness Yannis (no doubt Nikos, too)
imagined, trembling, when he dreamt my shape.
One midnight, near the end of June,
I stood before the mirror, nude. In light
the candle scarcely whispered, I invoked
St. John, then slept content with ancient lore:
the name next heard would be my destined mate.