Creatures know there’s treasure to be had,
And they’re clever in going about accessing it.
Each night, when it’s time to relax until tomorrow,
I amble to the stairway door and,
Clutching the doorknob,
Find a cat at my feet.
She spends her nights downstairs.
My feline friend rubs against my calves and shins and,
As I twist the knob,
Stretches out and scratches at the door.
Something must be up there,
And though she’s never ventured up,
She longs to look into such things.
Brace yourself for a bolt from the blue –
It’s a little strange, I know.
So hang on to your hat
(A fedora is preferred)
And bear with me for a moment.
Were I a centipede,
Parachuting from the firmament
Onto the verdant fields of modern-day Sân el-Hagar,
Where the fields of biblical Zoan lie,
I might spend the five or so years of my fleeting existence
Craning my neck and doing lots of head-scratching.
It’s easy to do, when you’ve got one head and dozens of head-scratchers.
You might think centipedes parachuting in from the firmament
Know nothing of Indiana Jones.
You’d be wrong.
That’s why centipedes relying on Indiana Jones
To shape their concept of Tanis
(Whose aliases include Sân el-Hagar and Zoan)
Briefly wish they’d booked
Return tickets to the firmament
When they discover the real city provides
Few hints of:
The Ark of the Covenant,
Sandstorms,
Or the trappings of Indiana.
Tanis gives a glimpse into a bigger story, though,
Just not the one our airborne arthropods
Expected to encounter.
(I hope your paradigm offered the neighbors earplugs,
‘Cause it’s making weird noises while shifting.)
The city was blanketed,
Not by sandstorm, but by the fabric of obscurity,
Finished with a selvage of xenophobia
Woven by Nazis, Pharaohs and foolish princes,
That the treasures within her
Might not be raided,
But rather remain undiscovered.
Too often we merely scratch the surface
Of treasures all around us,
Treating them like specimens of erythrite,
Soft as graphite or calcium,
And assumed to be of little worth,
Though they are lined with striations of crimson,
Dividing an unseen escutcheon palewise.
Who knows?
What lies just out of sight
May be purposed for glyptic art
And useful in the hands of a master artisan.
And they’re clever in going about accessing it.
Each night, when it’s time to relax until tomorrow,
I amble to the stairway door and,
Clutching the doorknob,
Find a cat at my feet.
She spends her nights downstairs.
My feline friend rubs against my calves and shins and,
As I twist the knob,
Stretches out and scratches at the door.
Something must be up there,
And though she’s never ventured up,
She longs to look into such things.
Brace yourself for a bolt from the blue –
It’s a little strange, I know.
So hang on to your hat
(A fedora is preferred)
And bear with me for a moment.
Were I a centipede,
Parachuting from the firmament
Onto the verdant fields of modern-day Sân el-Hagar,
Where the fields of biblical Zoan lie,
I might spend the five or so years of my fleeting existence
Craning my neck and doing lots of head-scratching.
It’s easy to do, when you’ve got one head and dozens of head-scratchers.
You might think centipedes parachuting in from the firmament
Know nothing of Indiana Jones.
You’d be wrong.
That’s why centipedes relying on Indiana Jones
To shape their concept of Tanis
(Whose aliases include Sân el-Hagar and Zoan)
Briefly wish they’d booked
Return tickets to the firmament
When they discover the real city provides
Few hints of:
The Ark of the Covenant,
Sandstorms,
Or the trappings of Indiana.
Tanis gives a glimpse into a bigger story, though,
Just not the one our airborne arthropods
Expected to encounter.
(I hope your paradigm offered the neighbors earplugs,
‘Cause it’s making weird noises while shifting.)
The city was blanketed,
Not by sandstorm, but by the fabric of obscurity,
Finished with a selvage of xenophobia
Woven by Nazis, Pharaohs and foolish princes,
That the treasures within her
Might not be raided,
But rather remain undiscovered.
Too often we merely scratch the surface
Of treasures all around us,
Treating them like specimens of erythrite,
Soft as graphite or calcium,
And assumed to be of little worth,
Though they are lined with striations of crimson,
Dividing an unseen escutcheon palewise.
Who knows?
What lies just out of sight
May be purposed for glyptic art
And useful in the hands of a master artisan.
No comments:
Post a Comment