hollowed under sun and stars

As idlers pass us by

under the Palace of leaves

Behind a grove below the sky,

a cypress tree grows, huddled in a swarm of bees.

In branches whorled and malignant

sit vultures tamed and shivering, alighting

on red breezes, off to find

Prometheus

to pluck out

his eyes.

They hurl epithets at one another and sigh,

swallowing halos from the dome that

hangs thick and wet.

Their tonsur'd heads bob to the pulse

of a cloudless sky.