Stiff and cold as a whale`s skin,
full of space and thin air,
edges and corners beyond stone,
moon windows and cold-fire brass,
curtains heavy with words
slow and dark in pitch.
This is the hole at the end of the world
with too much God. I am a spider
crawling up gold and patina
to a height that reduces us all below.
This is bloodless, lost and serious.
I have forgotten the gravestones outside;
they are all out at sea, old with green,
not lucent but thick with rock,
the left-behinds, we are the lucky ones
that hear the first bells,
a shake of tones,
we rise at command,
trained and black.
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