Idol

Magic hours of dust mote grey settle
On the marble beneath the statue swept
Up in the wake of a young boy walking
Alone through the arcade passes
Out of the shadow into the garish noisy light of the market struck
In the face with sheer volume of sensory information to ingest falls
In the sandy earth, a little death, faints
And immediately is surrounded
By women wearing many colours he feels
His forehead could burn
Forever like the funeral pyre of mount Olympus, Greek Fire
The carved idol falls out of his hands