What Are the Architects Doing?

Stoned on blueprint ink and Ritalin they mouth

concave, convex, titter over groin vaults and flying

buttresses, wrestle in sisal remnants behind the limestone

offcuts. Their porn is north light through vesselled glass,

rods penetrating earth for heat, hand-rubbed

plaster, succulents, oiled wood ceilings vaulted

to Empyrean. They own geometry, sport an armour

of T-squares and bow compasses fringed with macchiato

foam. From coccyx to clavicle they’re tattooed

in Fibonacci curls. They smoke Kiva in atriums,

specify Italian drywallers, six coats of Amish White

and the cheeky play of cirrus clouds in the master bath.

They angle pools to reflect only goodness, shape

vestibules of grace, cantilever mezzanines for peak

compassion, bestow the human constructible, the maze

arcade and rotunda of being alive. Beneath their gilded

transoms, frailty dissolves, that Carrara foyer with heated

inlaid walls more proud of you than your mother.

Author photo credit to Adrianne Mathiowetz.