I do not know
if I believe in a kingdom
without a king
or a monarchy
without a queen
or a fiefdom
without a thief.
a puppet’s head propped on a spike, proper
from towers to tillers
lest the hands forget;
the rise of a river
from up on the mountain slides
fed deep from the mother
underground wells ripen fruit
spent before, spent on high
to grace life on down the line, by line, the line
but drains out into a bog
a stinking cess of rot
quicksand kills, I’m told
but the bog is a python
squeeze and swallow charm
coils wrap, breath is shallow
and all the while
glaring down from gilded hill
the sound of glassware ringing
singing songs borne on broken backs
from where all bones wash white
so this, I tell, is civilized life