“more darkening, three gods”

you behead statues
because you are
compelled, by your
dogma, or by theirs.

don’t pause and think
about the craft, the marble
made to flow like robes,
the faces and hands
you grind to rubble
for offerings more your
style.

now they’re in the museum,
ripped from their home.
i should remember that
when i see them, instead
of forgetting all but rough
hewn necks and three gods.

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“on the darkening age”

when they broke it,

did they have a moment
where they acknowledged
how beautiful it was? then

with hammers, smooth
to nothing the features
of her marble face, smash
the helmet clean away. here

is no place for Athena.

“it used to make sense”

she told me, long ago, she’d sworn
to create more than she destroyed.

burning ground to make way
for something new. intoxicating,
breathing in the past and grinning
at its absence.        yes-saying
future-making. existence precedes
essence.                   books pile up
on desks, names and contents blur
together. apathy is death, decay, we
watch it fade away or prop it up
or help destroy it either way we build
again eventually. i don’t know.

“i’m stuck on images”

rainfall, feet in a mess of scorpion grass

we took our time and cultivated
blood, let it drip down through us,
little leaves falling with the weight.
today we set our house in order

the tree does not know
its roots. it had a name,
like most things do. we
were everything at once,
stuck on images. garlands
descending to the forest,
anointing fallen, red flakes
twist and shift, crumbling
into outstretched palms.