Breeze as brushes sweeps sad debris
leaves that settled aside the orchard
black pickets, black gate still shut
old Colonials' tile river is split
the buzz of bees is unsettling
two travellers recall a fallen tree
the underside of which was ugly,
black, rotted, but also, alive
ten thousand thousand legs crawled
across the span of sored timber
a sour stench of foul consumption
overwhelmed the faint whiff of flower
the two feigned Jesus on a brick
red river flanked by silvered
apple columns, seemingly an entryway
into Atlantis itself, though long abandoned
they stood on the cement port perched
over the river as two
Atlanteans wondering direction
while the water appeared still
and when they turned away they were
equally interested in the whereabouts
of a local source of the cerulean
that filled the troughs when all they saw was red.
upon opening an ornate door
of blood washed cedar with gold tassels
they cried their Atlantean cry
which bounced around an empty foyer
they found a tar flecked marble floor
two figures with arms extended
as in the account of Michelangelo
his fresco rendered in flesh
the handiwork of whom they were unsure
and for moments found themselves
pacing in and out of the temple
talking only of Michelangelo
and as they deliberated whether
to disturb anything at all
they opted to seek brighter council
unafraid of ambition or Brugelesque insignificance
counting lessons as they retired
the two assumed the debt was paid in full
and were not afeared of the noisy isle
but rather bemused by it
they did not notice a young cod
riding, capsized, on a great blue via
past a bobbing orb in murk
as gulls lazily swam by.
