Under the tympanum sunk-reliefs
people pass but no longer understand
what those gestures mean or represent
as if someone took out of their crania
those eardrums needed as much now
as then to hear what gods have to say.
Why, there the figures rise only so slightly
from the backdrop that would be
otherwise all flat like lines and lives
not ruffled by a frothy beat or tone.
And yet how the flocks of passers
oddly resemble what they disregard:
an image sporting a minimal depth,
holding on to safety that stays low
not to risk a skyward climb,
bending their heads into the height;
and thus a view just somewhat up
is lost to those fast and weary eyes—
not unlike a chance to catch a soul
when she’s lurking nearby—
but then it goes, and she sinks
below and behind the plane
of that ever-moving now—
and just like that
some timeless god might have
surfaced and even held out
an index finger to be gripped,
and thus pointing at an arch,
a window, door, and entry
into what has paused inside.
Just like the marble columns
that served as glossy strings,
fastened and attuned
between earthlings and the sky;
but what a freedom we got now—
flashing: “No strings attached!”
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