here in the husk of noon
now bleached, now yellow
oracle of time.

we have made a place, neither inside
nor outside.

behind the city
and under, nightfall.

she planes the land, herself
slaked as butter
to grease the worm pits.

we languish as cohorts to the deepening exile
vexing from us, as flapping bats
nocturnal, pardoning the night its bounty

to the shame of diurnal reap.

there is an uncertainty now
bosomed in the fog of twilight.

behind us,
the interest in truth.

but we never came for pleasantry. we came for nothing.

absolute; the daughter of another time

swathed  in the naivete of childhood.