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The Sacred City

George Moore

 

 

 

The dome of great believers is full night and day. 

 

Full of the dead, the spirits cannot escape. 

 

Who’d go back if they thought desire would live another place than among the lingering?

 

The first impression, not of blue but of tiny signatures of tiles in the wheel of the dome.

 

In a symmetry unnamed, in the center of the sacred city.

 

Beggars on wheels-and-boards with padded palms in a hierarchy of human decay.

 

A legless fellow smiles from his command post at the head of the main gate.

 

Cameras talking of hopeless degradation, and the designs constantly swimming.

 

How brittle is the difference we call everyday. 

 

Blood in reds and blues in intricate mosaics of a thousand eyeless reaches of the spirit?

 

One takes up his cup, rolled off toward his veiled home, a crack in the universe.

 

Does he feed a wife, a child, wait for the blessed subterranean heaven of sleep?

 

Survivor among survivors in the sacred city.

 

 

 

 

 

George Moore's most recent books include Headhunting (Mellen, 2002), a collection of poems exploring ritual relationships of love and possession, and the e-Book, All Night Card Game in the Back Room of Time (Pulpbits.com, 2008), a view of the world altered or corrected by quantum logic.  He has published poems with The Atlantic, Poetry, North American Review, Colorado Review, Blast, Queen's Quarterly and The Dublin Quarterly, as well as internationally in England, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Singapore and France. Nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two "Best of the Web" awards last year, his work will appear in the anthology for nominees for The Rhysling Poetry Award for 2010.  Moore has been awarded international artist residencies recently in Greece, Portugal, Spain and Canada, and teaches with the University of Colorado, Boulder.

 

A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. - Henry David Thoreau

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