amanda field | words 

In the City of Lost Perfection

Chaos ignites temperaments.

Charge out each day and plunder.

Bones be buried. Bones be broken.

Renounce blood, a larger black.

Each morning renew chaste vows,

only to be unbridled by afternoon.

A cadence of steel coffins hidden

by the king, a dispatch of flame.

Votive materials line cisterns,

a row of animal knucklebones.

The way an ox would plow a field

drunk youngsters prove their anger.

Classical etymologies persist.

The holy and literal correspond.

Settlement embraces the fortress.

The darkest place is between two epochs.

Slowly closes the original circuit.

An endless feud signals stubborn days.

Ploughshares (ed. Jean Valentine, Issue #107, Winter 2008)