A shaky, freehand shoreline mocks the notion
of perimeters—leggy, Italianate,
the slip-stack tiles and melting oleander
pooling to a bas-relief of broken gods.

Lizards cling to Mars, the alphanumerics
of his dedication lost to shrugging earth,
volcanic ash and knock-kneed, dazed verticals:
underfoot, smithereens of fractal tempus.

The scenery is goat trails, twisting cart ruts.
The foreground figures sprawl in fixed positions
of tableaux heat and vacuum, everyday life
a held breath, sculpted lastly fallen, spellbound.

Their memories survive these exhumations,
scale models of imagined cities dreaming,
neither sleeping nor awake, patient within
the asphyxia of blue skies swollen red.

In the die trace of streets, a neatness nowhere
in geography accepts time’s tourists, here—
these others, as we, but different now, cast
cold in gypsum—once fizzing, festival things.

No bold poses, mimicking the immortals:
instead, on a day much like any other,
a field hand, pausing on the slopes, sees sparrows
burst and burn, before the shaking loose of stars.

Copyright © Estill Pollock, 2004.