In the turbulent career of the patriarch Photius
there can have been few days more glorious
than Saturday March 29th 867.
It was on this day that he delivered his seventeenth sermon.

As in an old memoir, the rhododendrons were over.
Hunger persisted, and the light was weak—
the light of music and books, the light paintings cast

The page no longer lies flat, it blinks and rises.
The words assume green or yellow vestments,
and officiously obstruct the way forward

At the center of so much counterpoint
sleep is impossible, and the garden is crushed
into something like a pill the night will swallow.

The river tows its dreams,
consigned to the dim edge of existence,
reciting dull epics to desolate piers.

It was late in the year
and forests were burning a long way off
the day the smoke arrived, almost unperceived.

Only the dead don’t know
what heaven’s like. For the rest
extrapolation is possible.

The invitations were returned
or people arrived on the wrong evening,
so your worst fears were fulfilled

Destruction follows from the first premise.
In the sunsets you can see it happening.

Each year the monuments grew larger.
The citizens demanded this.
As their lives got worse they wanted