Winter 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2000 |

The Lost City

The lost city was not lost to itself. Like rings, umbrellas, pens, or letters, It stayed where it was; fogged in jungle, Waiting to be touched like the furnishings Of a blind man's home, or the body of his wife Naked beneath the blankets in a hotel room. The lost city does not shiver or moan. The stones of its alleys never miss the beat Of its builders' hammers or the footfalls Of the ones who called themselves citizens, Who believed in generations, scratched emblems Of fidelity upon their hearths and chiseled Large above the columns of public structures; Who were known for their music and dance, Forms vacant as the torch fires in the chambers That lit the scrawlings of what might have been Holy places, grooved altars where the blood Ran from the hearts of sacrificial beings. The lost city awaits us with encrusted glitter Like the ancestor's jewel we have never seen, Buried with him in the grave of a hard country To say, where the worms of his earth are serpents Of the skull

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Backwards Days

By Stuart Dischell

The lost city was not lost to itself. Like rings, umbrellas, pens, or letters, It stayed where it was; fogged in jungle, Waiting to be touched like the furnishings Of […]

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