Amenophis and the Cries at Dawn

Two jewelled eyes perspiring beside
themselves in a cloak of
unmarked time—caskets of evenings
even a fool could not
revive—faces unwound from their
hyped immortality—
spy him; he with alabaster
flesh, its dairy of cream
tributaries specked with the soot
of cold caress, faces
the sunset kneeling near the steep
embankment of his chest,
where converge the rapids of his
flourishing heart and the
velvet tendrils sweating astride
the heaving mound on the
very spot; here’s where plunderers’
hands do often deign to

The stinging fury of the first
fist to unbury the
beating of a forgotten heart,
rises to its legends
and falls to its molten (de)part;
within the tomb—the cold
treasury a censure of true
sentiment never could
deprive—arrives our own wretchèd
bandit, branding the hall
of the colossus with gasping

The raider of (t)his arc has not
the darkness to swallow
the light the stone giant imparts;
inside, our plunderer—
in the well whose echoes thunder—
he descends to the depth
of tense indecision and cries,
eyeing the shining and
precious mentalism of skies
animating dormant
visions of his desires once sought;
he pauses, and does not