My skin drinks in the white poison
of the sun. The stone remains of the great
city blacken in the dead air
of August. Headless columns giving rise
to nothing but the sky make their points
bluntly, & recently the library
has been rebuilt to look
bombed out. I see into the past
of the future: daily life is history.
The cicadas stammer incessantly.
These perfect hand-cut stones
have something to tell me, holding their peace.
Leave a Reply