In the summer
the elders frequent
the archives.
The musty smell
of old books
mingles
with their sense of repose.
The maidens and the wheat,
the sun
on their tiny feet;
your hand
upon
a slender waist.
ii
The feet
are marching,
as waves crash.
The feet
are marching,
as waves crash.
the feet
are marching,
as the sea of fists clench,
the answer
is not
in the archives.
the mouths
are marching,
the mouths
are marching,
and the minds are tossing slogans
while the Elders
dream
of rivers,
and lakes,
and ladies
in flowing gowns.
Walls are crumbling,
the horses bolt
and run
like a river.
The night is well lit,
the moon's teeth
are frantic;
but
the answer is not
in the archives.
iii
The hour is like
a clock
wound too tight,
more like a fat balloon
when a child
won't stop blowing;
small faggots are abundant
and leaks,
and the humble lintel.
The world
mutters
its sad stupidities
while the maiden
with the slender waist
advances.
Her lips fondle
the words
you will never hear;
"the answer is not in the archives."
