Wednesday, March 1, 2017


Every room is full-proof. The halls
are built roughly the same
on purpose,

so you
always seem to
know where you are;

always familiar
with what's on the table.

A bowl, pale and glum gold
like a soft luke-
warm sun.

A chalice
brimming with
a lake called The Ocean,

in the middle,
like the counterfeit words of incantation.

Pointed polished jewels, shook down
from their place in the sky,
scooped up

and retrofitted
with a familiar silhouette brutally-
but-indomitably drawn across them,

its four limbs stiff and stoically pointed,
a new kind of ancient pagan sundial
(now featuring Roman numerals)

made to keep new time
a little more slowly,
in order to blur and cover-over

how gradually—the symbols,
emblems of
the conquerors

come to be
fiercely adored
and worshiped—by the conquered.