Friday, August 7, 2015
The king is like flotsam, floating down the walk-path,
here to make rounds of his rising citadel;
face of the man-made mount, a vast hollow mask
his counter jetsam: toddler's mud pie, laboured anthill.
Not even honourable mention at the beach's
juried sand castle competition, annually held.
Remotely a tide is slithering away in feathers.
Ceaseless industry in the crannies and niches
fails to beat back the sleepy sense. No one cheats the time
taking longer lunches, doddling during work.
Operation runs smooth by the one who visits
with another at his side, and points his rolled-up blueprints
at a distant stairway, arch or garden square.
Yet some hear words in whispers hard to tell, like the water's
yonder sparkles, a shushing along the level sands:
a magnitude of folly explodes upon our work
like the crimpling sun: come dark your ruin comes. Perhaps
the two bowing fools, down there, worm fools, who precede
the king, are the wisest around, laying down
invisible pavers, founding mirrors of the clown.