All palaces are temporary palaces


Your cold, old look,
that puffed up throat
saying watch out,
I’m disgusted and remote,
huge and dangerous,
will pass like the temple,
like earlier love letters
full of a different swelling.

The buildings of ourselves
are poorly designed,
a pickle of add-on rooms
for the most part uninhabited,
dreamt of, foisted upon us
or bought in accidental rage.

There are gardens, some,
porches, sun rooms, an occasional tub
to share,
but they are nothing
when seen from space,
where all that is visible
to another’s eye, are concentric keeps
and invisible cauldrons, always ready
at a moment’s notice to take offense
and hurl down hot oil.

The plumbing in these hidden mansions
runs hot and cold only,
but none of it will last.

Nor will the certainty,
nor will the haughtiness,
nor will the fear disguised,
nor will the righteous self.

All will fade or crumble
or simply stop like memory
clogged or emptied,
blank or discarded.

This too, these fits
and these discomforts,
the ever greener grass,
will pass,
but for now it’s Thursday
and a steady Texas rain falls
as if a dripping sign
and forever seems so very far away.




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