from A Dearth of Prose

Stonehenge was built by human might
and survives to this day.
King Arthur might have dined there -
he and his men -
if they were of humorous proportion.
But the best mansion is a dollhouse;
it sates a man made of porcelain,
but the rest starve.

Ophir turns the heart of earth.
The scalding veins
house scuttling vertebrates
who clean golden clots.
By seven hundred minecarts singing,
a bright pebble emerges from the furnace
by abolition disaccrued
and graces the hat of some fat cat.
The lackey wishes it was merely bread.

By the seashore, Andromeda hears
every seagull a cry in the shell.
Livid, she thinks each fog-emerging rock
is her savior.
Still, who is to say he will not come?
She shakes her chains.
Clink. Jangle, jangle, clink.
Can you hear her?
I think she is probably mad.
Still, who is to say he will not come?

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