My cold Earth, in fear
—
mother of all gods.
And we pray, we beg,
and then we fall
onto the emaciated asphalt.
No work of flouting hands,
Nothing to save, or to be saved
In these circumstances.
My dreams, fragile
As an early March bloom,
Frozen in the escalation of the doomed return
Of far worse times.
And then we reverse the cloak,
in surreptitious fashion eat the leftover air.
There is no more home
—
only the eternal return:
chimney’s smoke,
family’s lovely oak.
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 2:17 PM UTC
My cold Earth, in fear
—
mother of all gods.
And we pray, we beg,
and then we fall
onto the emaciated asphalt.
No work of flouting hands,
Nothing to save, or to be saved
In these circumstances.
My dreams, fragile
As an early March bloom,
Frozen in the escalation of the doomed return
Of far worse times.
And then we reverse the cloak,
in surreptitious fashion eat the leftover air.
There is no more home
—
only the eternal return:
chimney’s smoke,
family’s lovely oak.