Portable Eleven

Portable Eleven

A rock held open the door
Venting a hot room
In the northern
Summer air

Sanctuary happened here

At least
Perhaps
In an era
Before

No shackles
No chains
No manacles
Condemning anything to death

Nothing doomed
And no one wounded

A clinic, if you will
For things broken
To be rebuilt

A haven of making
Inventions
Engineering

In a picket
Any tools
Chisels and marble

Lockpicking when keys
Go missing

So many doors
So many doors
No one should decide
On one to moor

It should be vandalized
It should be preserved
It must be well-intentioned
The strategy must deserve

Anything wished to it
On scrolls or tablets

It is portable
It is peaceful
It is a riddle
Once solved
That is less meaningful

It is presided over
Not by ivory towers
It were those who
Would cower
At the might
Of scroll’s awesome power

All the typesetters
Of all of this
Are employed
To exist

No erasure
Of these
Magnificent machines
Would stem the tide
Of the vandal kind
Apt to carve even on trees

No idea is sacred
Nothing valuable
No one good
And nothing expected

Just a sanctuary
By some ebony towers

With a rock wedging open the door
A scratched lock wrenched aside
After we couldn’t find the key
To get in before

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