Within this rattling of the metals above
And the heavenly grumbles, the grey void
The waterholes, frayed, loosened, dispatched . . .
Now, silences lose their grips.

It rains and there’s deep slumber
Tents’ pegs are mocked by watermud, recasting
Shadows of the primitive nights on days’ weakened rays
Silences, except for the rhythm known when it rains.

Incursions made on the pores of the resting place
Drip into it, these rivulets of hope for the metallic tooth
Which bit into this same place
In the hell of time.

Such fret at the debacle of gracelessness
Fomented by the leafy sways and killing claps
Crack the walls in us. Intumescent —we— in the
Beginning of the grumbles, at the last drop, pierced.