in outer space, with no sun in sight,
i open my eyes. and yet more black
surrounds this craft alone, as if its
defiant lids were never unshut.

a glimpse: far-off needlepoints of light,
beyond the yawning gulf of pitch-black,
are born-dying drifts in sightless pits,
digesting in a bottomless gut.

the dark is a hardfind ember murmur
trapped and wrapped in cages with
pages of longing and wronging brought
to silence, to nothing by the deep, in
which we can see so far, and yet, no
thing we see is reachable.

daws cry on my roof,
viewing musty lights,
builded high on rocks.
seven towers sing
your old song, now gone:
this is not my fault.

asking opus surf-khan:
why no waves, no proof?
vanish, vanish, man:
daws cry on my roof.

tragic eastern pittance,
gas-wronged breath aloof.
banish, banish, man:
daws cry on my roof.

pigeon paper truths,
accusing hoodlack lights,
still nigh in vox.
earthly powers belt
some old hymn, now dim:
this is not my fault.