Atlas

For I am that mythical beast
in the corner of the room
sweating off my shoulders
the answers which you seek,
because I see, I see how it turns
this burden, the world

that time encircles. Always the world
it circles, circles, repeats, repeats, a beast
stalking its prey, as time turns
its hourglass upside down again in the room
where I can only watch and futilely seek
some ignorant, herculean strength for my shoulders.

Ask me what I shoulder
and I will tell you it is more than the world,
it is what passes under watered skies, what seeks
its own demise, and its own dying beasts
of burden. This continual room
cannot compare to the force of history turning.

You say you’ll learn, and so I tilt and turn
the globe, so you can see over my shoulders
the reflection of an empty room.
I tell you that you don’t know the world
like I do. You are blind, you beasts
who create history. Yet can’t see

that what gold or blood is sought
slips through the curling hands of time turning
over itself again. You die, beasts
in your own skin and not know the feeling of shoulders
cradling the world
as I do in such an endless room.

It’s the universe and the unknown, this room
and though I hold you so close to what you seek,
you can’t find the answers in the world
that I shift and lift and turn
upside down until my shoulders
are sore and you tumble out less than beastly.

There is more to a beast than carelessness in a room
filled with you, who would never want my shoulders. But see, just see
the words from my lips, answers that I give, which can’t be found in our turning world.