Lynne Potts

When the gods died, virgins down under, blood mall,
love loot, heroes broke on etch and barbed lattice,
women screaming from the windows;

what would come next except the saints, cryptic quiet,
robed in air and scry, peasants haying their losses,
patriarchs drawn taut to the perfect;

then the mystery-makers: tapestry, perfumed restraint
in the form of lavish chant and incantation codified,
miniscule rule twisted and upbraided

until, holed up in their huts and mulling, the commoners
crawled from the ethereal black to tinker, trade,
and wattle together sticks, reeds, clay --

now makers, leaving us to a splayed new planet
(umbrellas, bathtubs, trombones, refined sugar),
everyone carrying bundles on and on, up the road.

Lynne Potts