The Crystal Palace burned. His
nose is gone, his flanks graffiti’d.
Still he guards the walkway,
anciently couchant before a tapered
tower of steel, a sort of techno-skylark
to capture song, or messages.
Who knows what news the sky
might bring. Lightning. Blitz. Man’s
forged fire gone amok.
That dome of industry, iron skeleton
under crystal skin that shone
with heaven’s colors in its blue-
stained windows, the Palace
burned. Before its ruins
the lion lies at guarded ease.
Future is a figment of the sky.
His face is shadow.
Taylor Graham, California, USA