Each Troy churns under to fertilize the next Troy.
Welcome the ships. One less sack would mean one less Troy.
The Ilion Homer's hexameters brailled?
A layercake ruin, a palimpsest Troy.
Blind fingers read the rubble and rap a rhythm.
Look there, in the bonewhite playpen of Troy's chest: Troy.
Dig with spoons, or you'll fling one over your shoulder.
Next time you smell ash on the ocean wind, guess Troy.
Iliads soaked the soil and sprouted this ghazal.
Rot is reborn as the root, Amit. Troy begets Troy.