September 12, 2014 § 3 Comments
was no flaming tsunami.
It was a crock-pot,
and I kept adding more potatoes,
It slow-cooked for decades
while I sweltered and wondered
what was making all that heat.
majestic deities smoldered and charred,
sucked underground by their own weight.
The very best of them, too pure a fuel,
exploded, leaving curious hollows in the rock.
The groves and villas that remained grew a skin of ash,
the change so gradual,
I didn’t see the colors fade,
believed the world had always been this dim and gray,
one sooty, starless night,
I got around to digging, and found
the most wonderful things.
There were mosaic-lined chambers
that glittered with conviction,
an outrageously frivolous lamp,
radiant with far more fantasia than function.
And I found stories and stories and stories
that flew to me like tiny motes of light.