Neon lights tell me
there is an empire.
It is not Incan
or the Ottoman.
Lines of vision whet
a crop of lightness.
Marble planets spin
in a growing mass.
Outside light itself,
from the darkness to
this cold morning’s noise,
there is a pipe dream.
It is not a dream.
My senses transduce
clues from far away.
Unfeeling piths die.
I run with conscience.
Its small objections
fade under God’s hand.
Wing collars and wigs.
The voices are raised
a centimetre.
They make joyful sounds
like water on stones.