The world a cube
a cylinder, your work
the sun a sphere

It is a clear morning
and you lie, dreaming
very close to the earth’s edge
your body soft against sun-warmed stone
in the distance
far beyond Knossos
there is the glint of armour
while you,
wait for the world to turn

Your dream,
is flight,
your hope
a great shape, godlike, whose shadow
darkens the sky above Babylon
or Atlantic city
and sends them frantically reaching for their cell phones

You came looking for clarity
building towers and missiles
your fragile body wrapped in tinfoil
a great wave
higher than a mountain
a terrible flood
that spared nothing
there were no witnesses
to your death
you fell
the impact left little impression
it was never clear
it will never be clear

The gods are silent in the grove
there is no sound on the water
you would have risked anything
on earth
to have shared their dangerous geometry.

© 2020 Neil Moore