Mac Oliver

HIGH ORDER CENTRAL PLACES

Walled old Babel, I canter
Through moist palms, marvel at your
Languorousness, Madame,
Ducts of water. Names

Have been rubbed from the stones,
Strippings to boss your stores, plunder
So vast thighs bruised on floors
Remain of reddest thunder-but O you rise

Out of wanton violation,
Warm the army's new migration.
"Hydraulic civilizations
Cannot all be the same"

Where did Askander die, what hour?
The theatre of seasons awash in streets,
The flu, the lure & glow of lofts entreats,
Ignis fatuus.

"Gate of gods," of your flowers
It's told, "Most elaborate folds
Weren't to be feasts for mortal eyes,"
Newly fallen spies whispering

Into their cups occupatios,
Rumors of the afterlife,
Cranes over a city rife
With stews, seduced by its own walls.

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