nine hundred years pass.
then: internet tourists in sneakers
desperate to imagine, to explain.
the silent stones keep your secrets well.
what was it, to which you maladjusted?
if the river by your palace dried--
why not rebuild anew? or, in famine--
where were your granaries? and so on.
we act surprised. but then,
the muse dies, and still i linger
sitting in a desiccated river-bed
scraping poetry into the dust.
may 2020
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