Doom doom doom
go the footsteps of the king
down the flagstones of his palace,
doom doom doom.
Matte steel scrapes against
limestone. There is
a squeak in the corner.
The king grits his teeth &
looks down. The king is always
gritting his teeth.
He doesn’t see limestone, hasn’t since
he was little, sleeping to the gentle
squeak of the wagon. The king sees
CaCO3, not limestone, he sees
calcite and aragonite, chalcedony and
jasper. The king sees that which is
there and not there.
He thinks of Hercules’ Cudgel, of the
dead fool in Giza, of the souls who
tore the limestone from the mountain
two miles hence, and dragged it here
with ropes and pulleys, donkeys and
sweat, carved blocks from Latverian
fossil, built his home.
While the king is staring at
his feet the little mouse
in the corner