without the feather’s might
and plow to sow the lines of soul
at the violent hour
the hour of blade and blood
we reach the same shores yet again

and if we do not come too close
we shall never see the wrinkles
that stretch like markings
left on earth left without water
for the yellow heated dust
for the rock and the death

what is dug from hardboiled soil
is only a flicker of hope
the last thing lingering in the ancient box
trapped while the other vile evils
trample over the old and new roads
and the rain’s still nowhere
but in the heads of perpetual dreamers

I cannot make sense of things
for some time now
there is me and there is you
separate, separated, separating
the trash in the mind of none
and when the photos we took
and the silence we shared
is all but gone
there still seems to be some life in us
there still seems to be some light in us
there still seems to be some love in us
yet not for each other