MOTECUHZOMA
            The locusts swarm in ever tighter arcs,
            And dizzy whisperings pollute the air.
            The time was, in my long-lost halcyon days,
            I hubbed the compass of this spiraled realm
            Like to the turbine of a tempest’s eye,
            The axis of a great panopticon,
            Whose every vassal gaze was trained on me,
            Arrested in a well-lit wheel of cribs.
            The glaring of my ever-watchful eye
            Flushed out all glint of scandal from my slaves.
            I was the copy-text to check their conduct,
            And all examples I would radiate
            Reflected warmly from each ardent face.
            But now this ring of watchers weighs on me.