The bright piercing moon,
perforates
the anvil black sky.
Tallying our time,
as it blooms and subsides,
like a grandfather
winking
a supernal eye,
surveying the lawn
of perennial pawns
and infallible annual gods.
With a logic all its own,
it salutes and bemoans
the Great Sphinx’s nose,
and the wind scattered scraps
of the Rosetta Stone.
Some seer will come,
before too soon,
or a scientist,
wont to presume,
But in gold and stolen
myth they’ll stand ,
like fraudulent kings,
yelping lambs,
flaring though spring,
with bluffs in hand,
until they wither
unto grains
of sand
.