Echoed in discrete series: an office
arterial to the brain,
the dream of numbers, a hand
flung upward in the room’s shadow.
Carved, as though by wind,
the granite features of the king,
pored with the avaricious poverty
of a household god.
Clandestine, inscrutable,
where he looked for pity
in men’s eyes, worshippers of the loam
his pylons ravaged.
Concerned with matters of water and salt,
he presumes with diligent hawk
upon his tax collectors
for news of riots and specific murders.
The intelligent quaver, the dim boast,
unaware of the blade hidden
beneath a shirt, the hoe descending
to rend the upturned startled faces
in a sudden twilit field.
Clods of earth their reward,
rich urine over their pallor,
the afterthought of death
redundant in its lack
of dignity: its badge and device
that of a fox, pissing
against the Tree Of Life.