Somewhere I read

that when they finally staggered off the mountain

into some strange town, past drunk,

hoarse, half naked, blear-eyed,

blood dried under broken nails

and across young thighs,

but still jeering and joking, still trying

to dance, lurching and yelling, but falling

dead asleep by the market stalls,

sprawled helpless, flat out, then

middle-aged women,

respectable housewives,

would come and stand nightlong in the agora

silent

together

as ewes and cows in the night fields,

guarding, watching them

as their mothers

watched over them.

And no man

dared

that fierce decorum.