I do not care at all for empire
but my dreams keep building a tower
keep building the same sentence
the sentence that begins we are headed
the tower grants an
irregular view
of black ground and the city
turning to ash even the boat masts turning to ash
yesterday the pale blue city of sad fortunes
high in its easy innocence its last afternoon
resting on air in the summer light
in the dry Trojan hills
olives drop all night onto the warm ground
the queen tosses lightly in her sleep
morning whitens farmers and their horses
my sentence has inside it another sentence
a stone inside an olive
an olive inside a bowl
the last day slipped away so quietly
the we were the we have been
the fraying lines that tethered a world
as rich men sail on in their elegant boats
one man casually ruining another
as if they are not headed
headed where they are always headed
headlong under the dark arch
my dream keeps building a tower