My my
Archbishop A
with his deteriorating wing
regarded the world.
I visited the spirit
there in his august palace.
He complained about the heat
and asked if I would mind
if he took his mitre off.
I agreed and took off my coat.
Whether he really believed
is difficult to say…
Certainly life
burned inside him.
He had composed a few lines
in Greek,
insisting it was only a draft.
My shaky work he called it,
but I had to admire the line
There there.
In Greek I repeated it.
He would look
into the blue overhead
from this private chamber
and praise his own words
with no intention
whatsoever to stop.
Very little could be done,
so I took it upon myself
as cautiously as possible
to cross that phantom out thus
Archbishop A
and took the chair
there there
in disrepair.
There was an eerie silence
at the table.
I tried making
stone men to continue
the discussion.
As evening progressed,
the men unbent—
Good
edging closer
Good good…
We spent hours discussing forms.
One had a map of the real
that we later published
in the Times in Latin.
One opened a little clock
and said Freedom.
Together
we opened my will
over August wine
poured into new bottles
as one asked
Why don’t you smile?
I smiled, and set my spade by.
from Poetry Northwest 05.1 Spring & Summer 2010More by Srikanth Reddy from the library
Copyright © Srikanth Reddy
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.