Debris

This sun or this morning's star sinks

Into the blind spot of temples

Would we drift off the defaced map

If we rose and dogged its profound plunge

We chase ourselves on phantom

Legs and the dirt that grows them

If, ransacking the ziggurat's

Shabby bricolage of shops,

We defile the virgin dust

And the chemist's mouldy balm,

Overtake the queue of bones

For the sanctum's cut-rate bargains,

Would for this alone

The dome collapse upon us?

We chase our past

But pass our chase

It is the arcane, glamourous dummies

That scan us

The arcane, glamourous intercom

That hems

It's the neon script that reads

It's us who are being read.

We are almost on display for sacrifice

At the counter in no sun.