The scowl is caught in jadeite.
The flattened face on a green bead
displayed in the orchestral light of the museum
also boards the train on Steinway Street.
The warriors are going to the factories.
They sew and sew, these little people.
They sew themselves into oblivion
while our health towers over them.
Our honey, our nutritious breads, our Europe.

I say that history is a heavy stone in that museum,
A golden block that nobody can move.
It is the weight that locks the ossuary,
The brute strength of the altar stone in fine Italian chapels.
It breaks the sword of every century, splitting the jewels like candy
that even starving children are afraid to eat.

I say that all of history is frightening. It deserves
to be boxed up and viewed from behind steel chains.
For think of this: how history has harmed us.
Think how it will not change.
For every kindness we have paid with an extinction.
See that star exploding? It is history, hammering at our heads.

So kings, princes, eater of hearts–
This is what I want to ask you:
If our Christ were reborn and walked among usv whispering that last secret into our fearful ears,
would you be beaten? Would you submit?
Or could you find your way back to the ball courts,
restore the ruined planetarium,
and calculate, from sacred zero,
all the formulas time has denied?

Little Mayans, European blondes–
let us follow the route of the thunderbird that
flies before the storm,
Let us toss the ball,
Let us outwit history,
At last, at last, let our game begin,