the eerie brick of the eye
smarts at the sun, blasting a bank of fog
and sour dross from the furnace
of insight, keeps the weather pale
as thin blood on a dreaming knife.
no greed is fair or sweet.
we may only crave what a soul may purchase.
and the hours wane and swell and nod
where we swing our hammers best
before we plot to build
cold houses.

none of us are the other
but we flock in ale and clouds, together.
we tuck our wings into our coats
and endure the clap of thunder
from some dark.... dark
clank.

and the honey from the salt
is a stone.