you were a paunch of sun you were
convinced of the clarity of alabaster in those dead-still halls, but
spectres, were foxed out of the masonry
out of lapis pillar, knocking over shallowed saucers of
jasmine-milk and perfumed tallow.
suddenly in the chiding of silvered idols
it became clear - that you couldn’t silence
the froth of apostasy with a fell gesture of
kneeling palms up at an electrum of an altar.
the black-toed priests whorling around you,
and the aten itself zenithed in the fog of your eyes
as you intoned a stiletto of tongue into your solar plexus,
a prologue slowly unfastening.
on the cold marble there that night
I’d like to imagine that you wept
pallid, attempting a preaching for your soul
into the abyss of your throat
the nonlight gleam, a fallen falcon's head. at dawn,
you might have been a cronus yielding just one god in reverse.
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