Brian Taylor, contemporary poet




	MIDDAY IN THE CALDARIUM view hypertext version and essay discussion While with imponderable gravity I go down into the cauldron of the hot-tub, the empire is shrinking, against the blazing blue of afternoon, to a single twisted branch, fig-laden, framed by the tub's black rim. I am encircled also with murmurings. The murky seeth of water. The falsetto of cicadas. The clatter of plates and forks, and—after the Campari—the guests with no conversation left greeting the maid: "Grazie, Concietta. Sa di squisito!" Such exquisite taste. All things ask to be circumscribed: moments when thought is stilled like a lizard in the dusty vine. And beyond the perimeter of siesta, beyond the after-image of dark-flaming cypresses— thwunk, thwunk—the paisano is bashing post-holes in the red dirt, preparing yet another defence and definition of property in a world whose frontiers buckle and burst or are buried in prickly undergrowth. The sleepless legions monitor the edge of chaos, their pockets sagging with bombs, and I wake with a choking cry that rips the maps to shreds. I am simmering chin deep in luxury, in a soothing murmur of propaganda, while the empire gathers in the colosseum, a vortex that brims with barbarian blood.