The acacia is two-dimensional and
pasted
against the orange sun,
bloated
as it falls by degrees below
the
bleached savannah grass.
An
entourage of stars follows in its wake,
diamonds
displayed on black velvet.
Cricket
philosophers discuss the circadian loss of light
and
the inevitable folding of day into night.
The
earth, now cured of fever, begins to breathe again,
and
wanton seeds are free to indulge in lust.
A
spark of fire in the distance,
a
white pinprick in the evolution of darkness,
reveals
that it is man who has grown from the clay.
He
raises his head, jaw open and set,
already
the ostentatious fool,
and
issues a howl that will echo for millennia
in
the valleys of war and peace
and
up through the fragile taproots of life.
A
lion roars, and myths are hammered into bronze
as
invincible gods rule prophetic constellations
that
pinwheel across uncomprehending minds.
In
the morning, sunlight strikes steel and glass
jutting
audaciously above the horizon,
the
subway beneath Manhattan roaring.
Philosophers
and shamans are quiet for now
as
a secretary strides across the savannah.
Her
forehead and brow grow to enormous proportions
as
she begins to chisel letters
into
the bark of the acacia tree.
~William Hammett
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