“A 20 line free verse poem, unrhymed, in the style of John Ashbery's poems in "The Double Dream of Spring." A meditation on politics and the thirst for power.”

It begins, as it always does, with the shuffling of paper—  
filed by anonymous hands, each crumple  
a punctuation in the endless sentence of empire.  
Someone coughs backstage  
while a flag sags, barely held by the wind’s indifference.

On every screen: the implacable faces,  
scanned for weaknesses, as if to read  
a weather report of ambition.  
Old maps unroll in secret rooms, names scratched  
by nails bitten in fervor—

I watch the river, dilute with memory,  
carry debris both brittle and gilded.  
This thirst—sparkling in cut glass, or  
refracted in the long architecture of speeches—  
asks nothing of rivers or seasons.

Somewhere, a voice remarks:  
Is it possible to inherit a shadow?  
There are buildings held upright  
not by stone, but intent.  
Beneath marble, the silent crawling  
of dreams denied daylight; the thick tapestry

of demands made and unmet,  
which continues to billow—slow, aloft,  
over the city like breath holding itself,  
ever since the first question  
escaped from a trembling, desperate mouth.

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