Precinct
i.
…and always in evening twilight
my choice to complete and fall again
from the light that never came, a song
loud on the lung, damped down
by corresponding silence
has me standing in cold, thin rain
where the question of giant time arrives.
Deep in the heart of its meaning
that night comes, long rest
outside the precinct
of a jealous love that captures,
noting down an index of credit,
something like that, see, I never knew him
or if he isn’t there, I did, too well.
Precinct
ii.
If this is where you are
burning out, should you not
burn harder, spectacular destruction
twilight is torrential, but the rain
is slow like this staggered quiet
stumble onto the crossing.
Long rest. No testament.
Fear leaves besieged bodies,
hungry. The map of the world
is this soaking pavement
slick of petrol.
Precinct
iii.
…for I have a great hope of glory
we would sing, but that great hope
we hid in our silent meetings, peaceful,
abstract and heading for dusk.
Our people hide ourselves, moving
without torches penned in
to specific types of work
your joy in destructive light.
One last try: The pavement outside is all
I can look at, seems to spread itself all over
the world. Time’s running out. Wanted
to be held, our pretty hair and ribbons,
summer ribbons.
Precinct
iv.
That felt okay. Now move along.
What’s the stretching sound
or impossible feeling
hairs standing up
you’re not alone
arrived here
night after night.
