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.
