Time is the desert. So that gilded mountain,

Caved for the aromatic kings, is barely

Able to be. Their deaths were pure, were lointaine.

And where they are now they had no reason to be.


Time is the river. So those knock-down ruins

Drown in a quick-sand error, columns free

Falling, prone. But often the wall-painted aeons

Linger, in a language flamboyant as a tree.


Time is nowhere or elsewhere. So this statue

Sings in the green field at dawn. But not song:

Rather a sound of striking metal, a virtue

Of stone. The spaced silence of poetry.