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[an imitation of Wallace Stevens' poem, "Palace of the Babies"]

That night, the unbelieving prefect walked
about the stone floor of the great arena,
its pavement tinted by moonlight and dried blood.

Somehow, the living, nocturnal sounds of
the city, Rome, the imperial city
could not quite pass those towering, seated tiers.

An ugly man with an ugly job in
an ugly time:  so justified his thought.
For this, was the Republic done away?

Iridescence, sudden and overwhelming:
then the adolescent martyrs appeared---
fledgling, and eager to enter his vision.

Male, female, nurtured by fellowship,
they hovered near, looking as he had not seen
before the breaking of their bodies this morning

His gaze met newly-comprehending, teenaged eyes;
smiles like unto victory, and eager bare feet
(as in past frolic on the Tiber's grassy banks).

But nothing of that received him into comfort.
He embraced only the ancient isolation
of those already willing to be damned.

Determined, the prefect walked on home, alone.
(Was it for this the Republic had failed?)
The martyrs did not ask about him again.
 
Starward
 
[jlc]