The Ephemeral City

vii

 

a beckoning gesture shooing away

                                                               raking light inches abstractions along crumbling facades   

         as yet another sun streams through melted sand

                                            washing desiccated tesserae clay layered one atop another peering and hidden

in the vast dyed ocean split like a cracked book bleached bone

cicadas rub their wings across wading tongues and whispering corridors and shouting stones

workers whistle and grimace tasks weaving crowds of bobbing heads

                                                                           bells sound their times making minutes

               an eternity of shimmering water laces spun glass

                                                      somewhere far away, great fish stir the ocean waves to frothing peaks that touch the sky

                                                                    and travel the world to here in quiet crooks and columns

                                                       diminishing in a thousand little lapping leaks of light

                                                                        on a thousand burnt brown bricks heavy with eyes

                 shutting night in a jungle of blind closing cornered buildings

                the tide turns the odors of the day

                                                          rivers are churned to convoluted courts

                    saints and angels gesture slow as stones

                  and as emphatically as whisked fresh cream

                                              mordant stained lives are dipped rush, waddle, wander, wait.

                                                          who am I to here sinks in exaltation

                                                  a day, a week, a dungeon, jilted generations and gilded millennia make repose

       a pigeon sniffs a promenade around a soundless sleeping dog

                                                                    gulls parade shadows across stony western faces

                                                                            and multitudinous, circle down in a thousand bubbled mirrors on sweaty orange glasses

                                                                      art everywhere, holds and presents.

words drift and press to frame fabric folios brimming with watery thoughts

                                             ink spreads with convictions through paper veins

a clenched fist needles laced light through bronze fern forms

                                                                            the ground beneath our feet fragmented firmly false

everyday, dark weighs light, silence sounds clamber, wealth bloats a floating corpse

        swollen with desire, a gold gilt balloon bobs in the web of waves

                                       patinaed statues strike the hours waking wonder to quickly fade to charm

                                                                                                  a barrel of sweets recalls sickness to the stomach

                  so best to safely stay, truth nestles its home hidden in infinity

                                                 we squint through Apollo’s masked mirage and cannot say but sing

                                                                             we may be, we may be,

                                                                                             we are swimming in the shinning sun.