the birds
they are a
murmuring
and the sun
it is a setting
slow across and
into the lowly
horizon
do not despair
the time lost
do not despair
the imperfections
of our attempts
the world slides
past beneath a
reluctant sky
these are mountains
that we’ve built
a gaucherie
in envy of the ruins
left for us
misled assayers
dreaming back
to a former glory
these are mountains
of nothing
we are an
anachronism
not fit for this place

the ropes are coarse
thistly upon thy
nape

the night moans
and the ground palpitates,
doughty!
those places you won't be.
you can't be.
now the walls
in this billet bombinate.
so lay low toward
your suffering and
its easements.
in this tiny droning room,
reeking of tar and soot,
with its jittering, jumping light,
we supplicants
transcend in
through the flames.