Some Mystic Road

Smocked in burlap, mud trudging, the plop
of a dozen driven donkeys’ relief, burdened
by the peasants’ revolt, the laid out stores
of a long march, on some mystic road to Canterbury
heading in the wrong direction.

Vacating plumage, a hat trampled, noblemen absconding
along the line of crusaders, pungent with sweat
a high noon overhead, sun throbbing in the virulent heat
his bankrupt court is set to recess presently,
the hue and cry of hawkers plying revolutionary paraphernalia.

Intangible receipts, a chancery gozzle, choked
on a fetid cheese fermented in the gathered ashes
of a thousand crucified Spartans, aged with care, monitored
temperature maintained, this side of hell fire
that side of the crystal stagnation of imagined heavens.

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