What is it that the wail of our voice
has given us
in the stamp of days lurching forward
on the damp streets, eyes upon our feet,
omitting the faces
reflected in this glass grown in our hands
and thickened skies over the oceans clot
of war’s nectar, man’s squander,
while mountains give way to unconscious
machines; voices, wooden with a thick green-love?

What is it that the wail of our voice
has given us,
that the march of a grassless plain
or an iceless crest cannot sign;
we gauge their descent like a killer,
set to be forgiven sins we’ll soon commit
as pointed fingers wag at the surging breach
leaning its majesty over the dampened sun.