the / glazed ambiguity / of the moon
He raised his glass &
toasted her across the table-
lands. She smiled back; but
in the black beyond her eyes
he suddenly saw in widescreen
the hatred that colonization
had engendered. He started,
startled. Wine slopped
but no servants ran to
mop it up. They were alone.
She smiled again, a
different kind of smile, ice
in the desert. Morricone? she
said. Maricon more like it. &
shot him where he sat. In the
valley the monuments
stirred, began marching. Soon
the stucco porches would be
the playgrounds of tortoises
& vultures. For a moment
she watched the future
from the balcony, then turned back
to clear the table, deliberately
bumping the slumped body
as she did so. She was singing. A
Carole King song but the way
Aretha did it. When my soul
was in the lost & found...
