call me Hadrian’s, call me The Great,

name me ten-thousand more,

but never forget who urged your

hands away from neighbours,

who pushed your fingers into

the carnality of clay and gypsum

so I could stand, stand again—
—higher than a human shout,

a circle of motionless strength

to girdle every square and factory.

you have built bricks on every hour.

bricks in every utterance. bricks

that do not perspire, that form

an indivisible image of—  
—a looted, etherised past.

so mix my slurry in dimness

and ignore your spinal ache,

your hips souring from the tilt.

ignore it. there is no rest. not till

the horizon is scaffolded; not till

the clouds themselves are fortified.
             you’ve served beautifully.

             so why do your children refuse the call?

             why does your son find stepping stones across

             the creek?

             why does your daughter plant flowers in

             the riprap?

             why do they ignore exigency? ignore my purity by partition? 
—you must stop them. beg them

stop. they are pluck     ing my slabs like cotton

from a doll. stop. they are        crumbling down my mortar.

tapping out my quoins with                   bell hammers. I can

feel it. I feel a gaping                              breeze, sparrow flits,

the invasion of                        moss, curdled roots,

a brocade of ivy on                my colourless rubble.  
I am of Jericho. I am     of Berlin. of history. I am

all that kneels down when the curtain rises.