The
Inheritors
In this
outpost town where Claudius was god
and empires
rose and fell,
a dignity
survives in the heritage of masons.
Somehow, the
wall still stands.
Earth-tone
bricks
shaled by
centuries of frost—
the angles
rake without regard to gravity.
The
centurion, Longinus, recovers his composure,
his
gravestone broken in Boadicea’s wake.
The statue’s
parts present a picture
empire
builders covet:
the law on
horseback, a stricture
reminiscent
of his childhood in Sofia ‘…tall for his age,
speaks
directly, considers life a token.’
The least
among us builds against the seasons,
plumb lines
reckoning adversity, between the rider
and our world
these random blooms of stone,
the sworn
blood, the pact
we make in
steely commerce.
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