travel

32. Progression

There is no entrance charge

to the temple of what was once

revered. It is chill-dark.

 

In the corner, Jacob’s ladder—

retracted now—

leans abandoned, blackened

beneath St. Peter’s toe.

 

Only nostalgia vainly thrives

against sterilizing dust.

I light another candle and walk

 

out in the asphalt citadel.

Here

the lifeless guard every stone horizon,

 

the clean busily manufacture

fresh, and the finest

gather to show purpose.

Under a crystal chandelier

 

you tell me

‘In life we can never turn back’.

Elsewhere

 

a muddied cock crows thrice and

still the leaves grow.

 

What were we thinking?