mn
::
poetry
Falcons
July again
always July.
Young numberless legion muzzlebound
in patient rows beneath blue gum trees.
The soft tuneless song of Queen Nefertiti
moving down the lines,
in each hot round eye
a proper deathly instinct -
her languid hand loose
in orange blossom, river-sleepy breezes.
Beyond the courtyard
the mud brick office
Akhenaton and the falconmaster desultory
under a broad pan of summer heat
and slow clicking typewriters.
The Pharaoh's slack gut puckering in,
his briefcase on his lap -
religious tracts and other pamphlets
soaked with yellow desert dust.
The falconmaster's fingers on his loincloth
spitting with brief accuracy
shaking Akhenaton's hand
and giving the royal purse
to his doe-eyed hard-haired secretary.
Thick afternoon
hot grease and honeysuckle lacing the air.
With the Queen breathing the smell of
long ago exhumed, the Son of Heaven's smile.
Nefertiti in the Falcon, away from the neon and clay city.
Akhenaton talking, always onward of
monotheism
the circuit of the sun
Nubian gold
science
until silence softly sifting down.
In the brief remnant of the day
the immortal ones will hunt
rabbits and ducks
and other small game.
Last modified: Oct 24, 2008 2:28 pm.
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