Monolithic
The prehistoric maps are buried under miles of sand
The land long eroded by hands unrecorded
Pounding rhythms on post-consumer polymer bags
Tails flap, heads shrink and the fish cheer

The golden age packaged for eighty years in the marrow of her bones
Under grass
Deep in the museum, Tobit's son catches a fish
And awaits instructions never to come
Buried in the potter's field and awaiting other daughters
Disguising mother and child
So the students never know

Miles above, each day is commemorated by one million parades
The hotels and aqueducts stretch into the streets
Where thousands mourn the causes they died for
And march to placid songs of domestic birds
For maille books Voynich will buy
Their words mean nothing
And the grid is a loss
No matter what tube from which light shines,
The hand swallows itself

Where his work meant something,
Exit stage right and wait for Orion
Our world is gone from under his coded back
Wash and forget

I don't know if you remember our wedding
Snow in Heaven and animal glue
God's books on tape are still in His pocket

Thrown down a well:
Please tell my wife to get the pictures developed
Yell for the doctor as the blizzard bears down
On Streeton's folly Florry and me
We'll live on only in books

He told me he knew as he took off his belt and climbed the stairs
A man's man, known for his bravery
Manager of the Columbian Order
Cooper's Leatherstocking and the Baptist prophet

Swing from the ceiling, drunk on the fumes of honest souls
Aspiring to be more
More than a hunter, who, in a hundred years or more,
Will walk the land above our bones
And gaze in awe at the rusted carousels and statues

Swing from the ceiling, drunk on the fumes of honest souls
Aspiring to be more
More than a hunter, who, in a hundred years,
Will walk the land above our bones
And gaze in awe at the rusted carousels and statues in the square
We must have been rays from the sun