Lines Upon the Lincoln Memorial

- for my good friend Jon

I stood in stone
within his words
beneath his feet.

His skeleton chair
a throne of bones
unburied corpse.

His left hand holds
some secret seed
in furrowed fist.

His right hand slow
with heavy fingers
falls like banners.

His shoulders broad
an unkempt altar
his head like wine.

From which his eyes
stare down the aisle
at the empty church.

Whose godless halls
might still recall
these heavy knees once bent.