White’s designed to fake an edifice,
but the matted crenellation of reed-thatch
throws it to the side. A squadron of crows
clarifies the rhythm, carries the eye through
incendiary doors to large space. And the ancient
is open, that is to say, the habitation of Sun and Moon,
under the shoulders of the celestial Auroch, widening
the interior of the south, above the river that flows
by persimmon trees, above a statue, arms encircling
a trunk, so you’re not sure who’s upholding who,
bypassing the figure of a prince silhouetted
on a wall like Calvary.