The Names Poem by Robin Fulton

Back to the Old Quad dream:
in the latest version
I´m on the outside of
a tall smooth column, on
a coiling stairway round
black doorless surfaces.
Will all this granite lean
one day, crack and collapse?
It can´t. The Great War slab
of killed names anchors us.
It is dense like a rock
from another planet.
Its weight makes gravity
tighten its hard hand-clasp.
No right angle would dare
to be less than dead right.