cradling a torn architectural drawing of the universe.
the sea spray can’t reach us here,
nor the rolling breath of the low clouds raking in and out of the dark-scaled pines atop the cliffs’ edge.
it’s a moonless night-world
at the brink of dissipation .

it’s a world-less willfulness that holds us back from restoring our sight-hounded hearts.

it’s a breakfast served up for something older than kindness,
we - the complimentary condiments of a finely set table for an ill pantheon.