Poesía, Issue 10 | June 2013
The Star Chamber
You are lying in the field bed.
You are sleeping under the canopy.
The grasses are askew amid the febrile stones.
A single cloud is floating over zephyr hay
where lie strewn the archives of the farm house,
and the fragrant hay is packed in the cigar box.
A book of saints in folio is propped
beneath your head, gradually smoldering to mush.
A blade of grass is inches from your heart.
The widow of the archives, cumulous,
is poised above the zenith of the city,
far away, yet somewhat in view, like a phoebe,
yellow-breasted in the ferns. This
is what the claimants do on the periphery
where dispensations want for granting.
And the Auditors, who audit the rate
at which they are granted, have grown familiar
with your secret way of doing things.
Long have you anticipated a meeting
of the Star Chamber. But it seems
you are indisposed, and the meeting
will proceed without you.