And still it seeps, quartz common.
This is how it is, countless,
restless and disconnect --
Abundant as rubble
Our voice follows the world
underpressured to
impotent collapse --
derelict of shelter-form
Seeping our eyes dry
cordite dusts everything,
bitter coats our pen-springs --
abrading our ocher mouths
Aclutter we're undone of answer,
and take last lidless refuse in song.
Why mark time? To stomp the pain
to glass. It pours like sand.
Our words spill and crumble
without poetry, what that is.
Artfullness will do no good --
no clean sheets. no silence
