Mercury’s Emperor by James Himberger

by James Himberger

Before him a desert Crowned in glass Scratching its life From the dim beams Of the Pleiades. Of what little comes Much is made of it.

The precipice beckons. New modes and disorders He contemplates. A stone’s throw Will break the feet of clay And fell the colossus Constructed against itself. Behind the portico Statesmen sigh, perplexed. Sprawled on the arms of clocks. When all veils are lifted There is little that can be done.

Amid the shattering glass, He smiles at the forms and shapes That dance upon the hurtling shards, Like a sunset fragmented Across the horizon.

For a moment, Arches, spires, columns Arrange themselves At speeds unholy By arts unknown. Kingdoms of the elsewhere, Unimagined republics, Crackling with strife, Living and dying all at once.

But within this swirling basin, No great chain reanimates Of bodies corporate, Glinting with incarnate crowns. Their pastures do not throng into Heaven. Nor do their phantasms stream into stone. No, the vaults of those solemn architects Do not mingle with the stars.

And yet, a far off country can be seen In hazy outlines of possibility. Memories of a future lost, Their fragments recovered only In cracks and hisses Between transmissions: “I will come. But not yet.” Instead, powers undreamt of fill the air. Managers of the sovereign void, Mark divisions over the globe Dripping circuits of gleaming slime. Pulsating, but not breathing, They restrain vast winds and waters, With grim institutes, Bringing forth a new desert Its vitreous diadem restored.

All that was before, And all that comes after Are useless to him. His life is spent In those moments of collapse. Each one a private Valhalla Every shard enshrined. And the hoary gods lead him Up avenues, through gardens, In the dying light, To take his place Among the statuary In the final alcove.