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Idle Hands

Jack D. Harvey

Caesar knew;
in the carbonized palace,
when the sons of dawn
in blue array
arranged their creaking
knives about his heart.

Caesar felt
the distance of life;
his ambitious courses
sped away like
spaceships towards the
dwarfing sun.

In the palazzo
of tinted marble
not a piece of
royal furniture
out of place.
Lofty wars,
bloody hands,
bloody swords
in the emperor's thorax
become transparent
as windowpanes;
more than
food for thought,
history furnishes
fresh and deadly meat.

Inspired monks
in technicolor
illustrate the text;
on some cold
French winter's eve
Roman Brutus lives
and stalks
in the pantry,
free as grassy steppes;

Caesar yet.

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