THE DISAPPEARING CITY NEAR ST.ALBANS

Here, an old Roman city sat

crossed-legged, mosaic faced

looking down on the Celts.

I came long after that city became

dust, busted walls, old marble statues,

all that remains, bones of dead people,

a shield, armor, old mosaic floors, and dust.

I saunter through ruins of an old theater,

trying to piece together little I have,

imagine life, among the dust,

string together lives of those who once

sat in seats that have long since gone.

Here, time’s ingress is an egress

time sits, back contorted, head thrown

backwards in laughter, legs behind its ears,

speaking in riddles.

I enter—if only time spoke in parables

like Jhesu, or Buddha, the city would

rise from dust and ancient relics of time’s

former self, present self, future self—

sit, criss-crossed, and imagine a life beyond time.