Saturday, November 12, 2016

The Republic by Michael Palmer

The Republic

They bellow, these silent
creatures on the carousel,

these dragons and centaurs,
unicorns and sea-beasts,

and always the horses,
dappled, candy-striped, pure white.

Their eyes are ablaze
with what they cannot see,

ablaze with the thoughts
they cannot think.

They cannot think
of the spinning world

in which they turn.
They cannot hear

the music they encircle
pouring from the pipes

of the wheezing Calliope,
it’s melodies bent by the wind

into the semitones
of an unintended world.

And the children, the wild
children as they ride,

laugh in their pleasure
and in their terror

at a slow-dawning knowledge
that the beasts will devour them.


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