Spring Beyond The Bed Of Slate Poem by Luke J. Holt

the hares have sensed the crumbling spires
like storms of bleeding stone.
this temple, our dungeon, is of fear's loftiest crystal.
for the castles of white have made warriors thirsty
and the children of the falling cities march like burning christs beside the cavalry of stranded motorcades.
she is too hidden by the soliders
for her musk is what they have that no beast could tear
no serpent may seize.
beyond the barn-hued fences the mares graze and crows husk
the last star sighs and fizzles to a blue specter
and all else ceases but the groaning of the Machine
our generous child and our apocalyptic sire
a heaven parted between the remains of two slain angels