MACHU PICCHU

 

Clasped like a fractured necklace

round their soaring throat of stone

fixed against quakes by offset blocks,

round corners, interlocking joints,

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these walls are masks.  Their rhomboid eyes

stare over royal squares, sun temples,

cliffs sliding to ribboned river,

empty as time.

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Climb these ladders of rock

past honeycomb foundations, emerald

terraces, unroofed gables

lit by skies steely with snow.

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Admire ashlars smooth as skin,

polished by sweat, brute force, the inward

screams of those who hauled them here:

they glisten like pearls in Urubamba

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mist.  Turn to towers

perfectly aligned to equinoctal rays,

dogs laid with their masters

as companions to the dead.

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Recall bronze sacrificial knives

that migrated to Yale, then back again.

Then when you catch your breath perhaps

you’ll shake off tourist mode and ask

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what in these ruins moves us so –

a pride at plinths pulled past coiled clouds;

subconscious glee at cold

proficiency that shouts

 

who ruled this place; romantic dreams

of common bonds; though all’s abandoned,

alien, decayed.  The eyes remain. 

Black condor shadows sail.  Dusk paints facades

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in hues of blood. 

                          No love can linger

in this geometric space. 

No answer but the churning

rapids’ rumble, far below.

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The Raven's Perch, 14 Sept. 2021

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