The light slows in the evening, thickens
like dark honey, grows more dense.
In the high room - in the quiet confluence
of silent frescos, frozen civic scenes.
Here time slows gradually toward stillness, too.
The moon glints through an eastern window,
sunset radiates the western view - tomorrow's
just a Washington slept here, nestled in futurity.
Below that tower, on a sunken stream
(imaginary Di) somebody's plucky packet
boat makes for the source. He plunks
half a piano, for a double-deck of dreamers -
weaklings, cards - dressed to the nines
(someone elected them almost at least...)
- he played the fastest 44 out East, they
said. Curved ivory whispers in the pines.
Music revolves around and round
until it finishes where it began -
a double wreath of birth and death,
the milk and honey of Melchizedek.
A tom-tom of the doom (eternity).
Such were words he muttered quietly
while tinkling the pilot's keys, while
angling that penny-swap mosquito boat.
Such be the b-flat of finality.
It drones for you, for me,
it is the adamant of history...
the high room's bright hilarity.