Beyond this limewashed door, a Greek couple sit at a bronze table, etched w/ palindromes, pinching leftovers from the night before. They wait for the T-shirts and tourists to leave via hairpin turns so that they can go fishing on the wavy Aegean sea, governed by the touch of gods.
Beyond this door, empty calm except for the gilded sunlight that dances the hokey pokeynas over wooden beams and thru an empty bottle of Vinsanto. The tourists have fled down Penrose stairs, having spent their last drachmas on deified pottery; it's safe to come home, a home molded by a volcanic temper, the wrath of a devil.
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