The only transmission was encrypted.
The key had long ago been forgotten,
and none of this mattered,
since no one could tune to its frequency.
Wading through dead air, shaping, modulating,
Passing tunes with two chords from the throats
and lutes of motley troubadours,
who sing the same songs which once felled
that mistress of the Spartans.
This poem will not be read.
It will be forgotten like the words
to the tales on the walls in Montignac;
it is fancy, an impressive attempt,
but shy, disputed, belligerent, disturbing.
These sketches are in crayon,
a cute demonstration of fine motor skills,
proof of progress toward the Hellenistic ideal.
These songs are bar-room lullabies,
just slightly out of place coming from sober lips.
These questions are a lingering excuse for ignorance.
These answers are reason to fall apart.
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