Curator

We've broken through:
tomb robbers,
a third attempt
is the charm,
breaking
into the sacred
and holy
and the profane
and mundane
and drudgery,
seeping through the edges
and preservation and self,
these are our discoveries.
Across the table
last night
you hinted at a future.
Red sandstone,
I think,
for its
uh
qualities,
such a career,
careening
and anyone claiming to tell the truth
is
you know,
if you'll allow me
O City
with your winding highways
strangling the satraps
and bringing dominion and order
standards and measures
fluorescent light
no generation more.
You hinted at a future, ghost.
And it took
the form of
a thousand.
Across the sky.
(We don't dare contaminate the land.)
And all I could think of
is what I would
tell the children,
ghost.
And you
everpresent
gently suggested
"the Truth"
thus,
the highways.
European towns
younger than their American counterparts
vigorous with unpronounced envy
and the pull of the unordered
and unfair hands
drawn
bluffed
camels and needles, friends,
charity as self-destruction
desecration,
ghost,
haunt me no more,
in these tunnels
omni-directional
and echoed with the sounds of present and future
if we continue
we can hear the water flowing
just outside the walls.