Walled old Babel, I canter
        Through moist palms, marvel at your
        Languorousness, Madame,
        Ducts of water. Names

        Have been rubbed from the stones,
        Strippings to boss your stores, plunder
        So vast thighs bruised on floors
        Remain of reddest thunder-but O you rise

        Out of wanton violation,
        Warm the army's new migration.
        "Hydraulic civilizations
        Cannot all be the same"

        Where did Askander die, what hour?
        The theatre of seasons awash in streets,
        The flu, the lure & glow of lofts entreats,
        Ignis fatuus.

        "Gate of gods," of your flowers
        It's told, "Most elaborate folds
        Weren't to be feasts for mortal eyes,"
        Newly fallen spies whispering

        Into their cups occupatios,
        Rumors of the afterlife,
        Cranes over a city rife
        With stews, seduced by its own walls.

Copyright © Mac Oliver, 2001.  All Rights Reserved.