Pain takes on definition.

The seasons grow in shape.

Architects of mercy

turn to savages.

New lanes open in the way

they used to go.

Orchard of a waning hand

each apple with a desperate shine

and a seedless center.

We are partners in loss,

the contest is over.

Time will write

with its syringe of mercury

into the sea.  Magnetic zones

will eat up the suns to come.

I burn an herb whose name

I do not know.

Rivers of paint flow over

the bulging doors.

The end glows.

A chain of basins

galaxies in budding rows.