A HYMN TO BE SUNG ON THE ESCALATOR

The pieces of the kingdom that have no king
are falling; the places that are ruled have already fallen.
The kingdom that never had a name is falling:
and it breaks the rocks as if they were chalk
and thuds in the earth as if the earth were flesh

throbbing with blood, only as thick
as a man's arm who holds his body by a thread;
his body is the thread and his arm
is the poles of the earth,
steadies him above the kingdom that burns
without smoke and without ashes

burns in the night as if the day were trapped
and nothing holding the kingdom
is strong enough to pull it back from the brink
of turning into rushing water, then steam
when its stones begin to glow;
the kingdom that is falling is flowing
into other kingdoms, the named
and the unnamed crashing together, the fork
where rivers meet is shining red
with the blood of those who fill
the gold of its veins

and the higher kingdom is falling
into the lower kingdom with a wet slap
like the bodies of birds who make love
in the surf

those who were hurt by the kingdom
are always building new kingdoms
the ruins of ancient kingdoms are worshipped
by those who conquered them, and the experience
of the wind lives in those who guards its gates
as if the woman they love were inside,
though they live alone, loveless

the kingdoms on their shelves
are moving closer to the collapse
of walls of water, in the tumult's central
embracing, the kiss of flesh within ember,
the pressing past,
guarding the sun, scorched by it's path