Here, under a
dead dream,
slurred men
coagulate under
a chord of cloud
that late was
lanced by stone.

Their tongues
cluck with new
noise. Anxious
alphabets rise
in the dust.

Was the tower
a plea? A yearning
to return to God?
Or something
defiant, an arm
extended in theft?

The division of
language is
the birth of
the shibboleth.