Like a dog I lie on the roof, watchful. Tighly knit. Tightky knit and tightly pearl, knit, pearl, knit, pearl. Pearls, rubies, carbuncles, hopeful diamonds. Is the hope that the king will return, at last from his decades of war in the East? The battles may bring him back the same man, or perhaps he’s now turned into a fresh beast of no name? Would the city sit tight and embrace such a creature? What about the queen? Left long at home and on her own, might she steer this old knitting tangle into a new form? She, deep rooted in her City, she mightn’t budge from her throne overlooking the roof of the domain. Do we condemn her? It’s been eight long years, and the man has vanished, yet in his absence, through her sweat and toil, the City thrives. Silos burgeon with wheat, rice, tomohawks, and ginger ale. It’s a fruitful time, all would agree. But hostile. Watchful.
Like a dog I lie on the roof. See the fires burn? bonfire, bonfire, bonfire, closer and closer, a signal to mark my king’s triumphant return. Return to the desolate, the deconsolate, the trouble in mind, so why dont you lay your head down on a pallet of straw? Or the lap of a scarecrow – theres straw in them thar innards. Scarecrow dont entirely mind, I hear. With their solemn watch, their propped up hollowness, such a very mid-west “hay there, hows it going” attitude, the silence might be taken for aquiescence. And up goes the straw in the shower of sparks, another bonfire to bring the great one home, another bonfire to burn.
But look to the east, dog. It’s Manifest Destiny, and those in the know take our young man not west, but east, to the hills and dells and deserts and Gymnosophists. Taking our bland bodies to the wise, wanting them to spill out all the answers, turn tales to sooth one’s spirit. But their story’s spun backward. We may want the words, then knit them up, once again we knit, closely knit, and boyscout’s knots bundle together, sardines in a gordian bond.