while saturn snores

while saturn snores, we listen---
our dear sinister city,
we know what treasure you hold.
your fine chests are bare,
giving to touch,
harder than gold---
last night was pretty
                we are sure.
this morning, cold--
and whereby silver
light we would stare,
soft morning light
here unfolds a curious curtain,
      and this much we are certain--
that no act is played
upon this stage without
an audience attending---
and though we must admit
we did not witness it,
the happening, yet of course,
we know what happened,
and so by this course
            we are attendant
for by some merit
we are here and able
to trespass backstage
     and, with control
but not impediment, take note---
warranted and well-versed,
gentle in our regard, and
fearless to make inference
from such evidence:
                   the ash of trays
that is what became
of smoke and grass
and gentle laughs.
a lip smeared glass
with amber hue,
and a goblet stained
           blood red.
a corkscrew still
screwing blood red cork,
lain beside and bereft
its sip full bottle
long sipped of brew
           they all point fingers
to molted clothing
that trace one wild
ragged path to a ravaged
sweat stained bed
stripped of clothing
but for dented pillows
dented by one or more head.
      and then on to some small packages
unwrapt, that with some
tissue paper strewn
and with some issue
thrown from one end
of one member
             across the room---
evidence that
             let us be certain
what happened
behind this happy curtain
                and still
as light enters
aslant, ashamed
to touch nothing
more willing or ready
than this dusty floor,
egg-shell walls
still but slightly
in staccato form
reverb the echoes
of the night before.
                       so then
our dear sinister city,
indeed, last night was pretty
but alas, this morning is cold.
     for your god of saturn sleeps now
and while we know what his dreams hold
and what company he keeps
and what treasures you store
     yet we know what treasures were found,
that by this morning light you glisten
     and they are soft to touch
     more treasured than gold
     kept well behind
certain curious curtains
that blow listless and unbound.
for this we have seen by some merit
and by some merit
        now we listen----
sipping that sound,
of the night before
entranced by the echoes
of saturn's snore.