The Empty Bottle
A summer flood upon the desert,
rolling the arroyos
like a nostrum for the seeds
that cling in desperation
to that long forgotten ghost life
that the animals once knew,
and know once more
until the filtering sand grows brutal
in its thirst, and once again
the brooding cloud
is mother only to the sea.
What then?
Always, the cycle born anew
amid lush visions of a paradise,
(Did not the laughter echo
in those jaded hearts?)
brown bottles carried home
to prize and treasure
as their secret miracles allay
our hopelessness.
What then?
All the packaged gods we bought,
those neat and tidy little wars
with child-proof caps preserve
our just complacency.
White marble crypts
and solemn rites make glorious
the sealed boxes covered
by the gonfalon.
The anthem swells a thousand chests
before the game,
a thousand chills beneath
the rostrum of the damned.
What then?
Nostrums all, to serve us well,
excusing time
for re-directed splendor. All
the gods enshrined
until the twilight creeps across,
revealing
only pride,
the fall,
the bottle empty...dry.
What then?
~
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