Robin Wyatt Dunn, July 2013

A Month in the Black Temple


Are you a door?
I ask that, here.
Would you be?
You’ve learned that much.
(No, damn you).
Ha, he is a key.
He thinks we open for him.
The thousand steps?
Black and white.
Here, sunless, it isn’t photons,
Whatever the light is,
From everywhere.
I see him, the two eyes in the
Metal face
That isn’t metal,
But I call it that.
Are you a record?
We read you here.
(They make me say that).
We read you here,
Visitor without your card,
We read you here,
In the twilit day,
In the white black night,
We read you here,
In our chess rooms,
You can call them that,
Chess rooms,
It’s good enough for
Government work, that name!
For you, anyway.
You’ll never know our real names.
Why would you?
Why would you,
You who open doors where
You are not welcome?

See here, the stars?
You’ll fall a long time!
My, my.
I must choose now.
Will you be a temple,
Or an atrophy?
Will you be a horror,
Or a mask?
I will have to ask the other



Promote. Poetry.
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