By Thomas Page
Patches of purple and red blossom out
Of the curb on the roads bisecting the
Forests from the houses both pastel-hued.
Nature’s little swatches of the springing
Summer. The cloudless afternoon breezing
Me by as the trees sway in the wind there
Outside of my bedroom window the faint
Light mixes with the bright of the May sun.
The sun has shone on better days, days of
Yore when the sun could freely touch my skin
Without the fear of the invisible
Barbarians waiting at the gate for
The restless legs to venture out to Paris’
Arrows slung into our heels where our dear
Thetis dipped into the medicinal
Waters; rage of the individuals
Guided by midsummer stars crushed under
The same red heels of purported heroes.
Older houses have panes of Tiffany
Glass, colored with the shades of the wild
Flowers found on the side of the road made
Artificial by the glassblower placed
In the doorway to allow the May sun
To filter through into the rest of the
Room made up of the world’s bounties harvested
Into neat, little packages with the
Faintest sense of its origin like the taste
Of vanilla removed of its Madagascar.
No matter the castle nor its process, the
Masses will venture out to discover
What poison tastes like on the tongue dispersed
Like the seas crashing on the shore; the lighthouse
Dark and the keeper asleep and the helmsman
Bleary-eyed; salty beards screaming who ate
The albatross; the eyes looking at the
Temple of the sirens, the reaper’s crags.
You can call out to the sea all you want but
Only the flowing tides will call you back
Returning the vial of poison desired
And the people will return to the castle
Waiting until the next storm to try again.