Sunday

Tears, terrible white and beautiful, hanging poised for permanence since they were bricked by hand; just another, but the most affecting for now, monument to a lover’s grief. The symmetry’s cut from the sky and tiny figures stroll between the shadows of her architecture. Bridging the horizon, centuries in hand, the tribute pale and stark and pitiless as a stillborn’s struck in morning sun before the undelivered, mute. Unnoticed, a day-moon’s drowning; the host sweats English enthusiasm. Cameras can’t go any closer he claims, confirmed, it seems, by uniforms wasted watching unburdened couples swarm forward. Between the frames is blameless nothing, the motherless child of distance cold incalculable being breached, bearing a charge, flickering in the broadcast, against this empty Sunday, Holy somewhere. A coward’s curse on the Taj Mahal.