we have our plots and flotsam
and plod joyless; rain smitten.
we join the heap of foil and protagonists
in the tale of our distemper.
we whimper in the dark of our hard furnace.
fumbling for trinkets of mirth
where no god has birth
even as a dented
trumpet
to a hairlip...

Or a Name that comes First.

and yet we sing. but -
the song is wrong righted. a blight
blighted and a long drum
mumbling benighted
in the silk light
of our simple
worms.

our apples ache. our knowledge, rots .
but our temples, at the core
seed the valley. we famish the mountain
but feed the foothills of our strange
and strum the harps of Oblivion
with our mean thumbs.

constant gardeners of hard loss and flight.
and the Night's Sun.