Temple Dome

See the fangs and anxious licks

Of that ancient dog squirming under desert sun.

His bloated gut drags on thirsty sand,

Blood and bile in its wake.

Then rod of thunder, Heaven sent,

Strikes the salted ground,

And all about, her moans are heard,

The liturgy of a drowsing moon.

There blooms the temple dome,

Rising in the presence of her King.

The stir inside is stir enough

For palm and paw alike.

Hunger pangs yawn slavered jaw

Closed hence on steely blade,

And into peace, his hand opposed,

Crawls savior to safety.

Saturn Devouring His Son (c. 1819-1823) Francisco Goya

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