pierce the sky with their crowns.
The gothic stained glass, refracting the marble
columns, lets the blue sun grow the vine
between the mortar. For centuries,
the Pantheon’s domed roof puzzled architects
who’d forgotten the recipe for cement.
The flotilla of all the gods enters
as rain through its oculus.
Myrrh rises from the altar, nightly
entwining, uniting, spreading
as fumes into the furnace of stars.
2.
Snowflakes cannonade our room.
We turn on the furnace and watch the heat waft up
the windowpane.
A rectangle of evening flickers
on the ceiling.
Shadows soughing the cedars of Lebanon.
Shadows spreading through the room like water,
spiders walking upon the meniscus.
3.
The black Japanese futon
on the floor, where we lay. The foundation
of this palace. The navel of our Via Appia.
And like the blind road builder, Claudius
crawling barefoot and on all fours
to check the quality of each stone,
we are preparing the earth to receive us
4.
beneath the road. The eternal road
ushering in the triumvirate. A march
through the rampart of Rome’s walls,
stallions gliding, the day’s dictator
on his chariot with his train bearing in his claim
of foreign lands, the gods
of Visigoths, Syrians, Macedonians, Carthaginians, Greeks and Egyptians
evoked to abandon
their lands for a temple built in the city of Rome.
The plume of Caesar’s red-feathered galea jounces,
making him Jupiter for a day.
The laurel of his labors on Capitoline hill,
his murex robe flowing down
the steps.
The Mediterranean
over the sun.
5.
We bring home our groceries after work.
The Italian winter oranges, Japanese yams,
rainbow trout from Germany, and eggs
from the factory outside Krakow.
The world a kitchen. A nook
where we take in the morning news and drink
Earl Grey. The British added bergamot to cover
the taste of spoiled tea
on long sea voyages. Now it accompanies bird song.
Across the Atlantic our other cities
cast lights over black waves.
6.
Kleos: the glory, the desire for eternal life.
It is like trying to be remembered
by those who lived before us,
said Marcus Aurelius, ignorant that he was the last
good emperor.
If my son is sick, it doesn’t mean
he is in danger—
ignorant that his son,
to whom he’d give the crown
would tip the fall.
7.
But the wine the mourners
poured upon the ground of their beloved
dead made mud beside the road
that clung to the wheel
of chariots, carrying their grief
further along.