Augustus, the Divine, the Fortunate One,
Final surviver of the civil wars,
Last body left upright, he did a lot of building,
Created a marble simulacrum of himself.
The squatter, cross-legged, patient,
Behind her table-cloth of amulets,
Counts change from a velvet bag into
The palm of her hand; the ambergris of potions,
Murex and belladonna, washed from the Tyrian
Planisphere; the occult gear-wheels, the pathways through
To the different levels of Kabbalic illumination,
Represented in the symmetries of Tarot cards, the solar signs
Of the hanged man with a halo upside-down,
The tie-dyed circles in the breeze like purple flags;
There is the scent of lavender sprigs, and the raw smell
From bins in alleyways that back up restaurants
And sticky bars. How we wake, drenched in lilac,
Reeking of petrol, turning over a pillow in the night.
