We only ever saw the stars between the staves of telephone lines,
The mangled music of restive constellation, adrift in a fog.
Our bones are out of tune.
Knuckles crack and windless chimes can fill a room,
But words are overdressed,
Here’s six for half a buck.
The skin hangs loose on our inherited cogs;
The sickle sweeps and our hearts are plugged with straw;
…Fear in a handful of dust…
I need for my crimes a witness I can trust
To find me robe and wishing well
And cloister me, a monk.
When April comes, this stony waste will spit us out
And rain will feed our tuber souls.
The endless tide of highway shores,
And people knocking at the door,
And there they linger, hungry and of thirst
Until they find a window.