The throne of a metropolis is on the far side
atop the lake
that wrinkles the sun,
beneath a mountain
green with sickled pines;


The people use their boughs as scythes.

The people use trees to cut down
more and more,
and burn whatever's too pesky
to stick around.

In a backyard of a house in the suburbs
people get bored playing cards,
watching tv,
getting drunk in the evenings.

They party like pagans going crazy
over a peerless future,
and an impermanent past.

Sometimes a new bonfire is started
where the old one died,
sometimes the old one will flare up
and scorch the sky beautiful;
a smoky curtain on which the tongues of stars
can make good on all the promises
made on them.

And people kiss around the fire.
Hug,
make up,
joke.

The sealed souls of the people open.

At the end,
they regret it.
This newness of life.

They swing their wooden scythes at the night,
still furry and wet
with bark and sap,
cursing god in fury, fury, fury,
trying to cut down the stars too.

These people that take and destroy,
they whittled the throne of the Metropolis
out of ivory from Africa.