~les 'Cryptoportiques' Poem by Mike Finley

(a subterranean market in Arles)

There are the stations of the scourge
the pillar where the spirit spurts

The cathedral embedded in the mine
has been silent now for some time

The cobblestones are always damp
From the place where stalagmites stand

There the cockroach Orson Welles
scrambling over a hill of shells

There the bazaar of shiny foil
lamps sputtering their last drops of oil

Dank as the dungeon and damp as a cave
No swinging ball of lead can raze

There the architect led on a leash
Drawn into darkness like a beast

There the hippodrome’s flaking hoar
and sawdust and horse piss and hair

There is your empire sunken and gone
It ripples like a pebble in your palm