the weary terrain.
Seeing that the world and I
have parted company for good.
There is no door, no window,
no fertile escape.
Angel faces and angel hands
all turned to malevolent tar.
Skies yielding to the error of the ages
the barren light.
Yammering split screens
hung from their machinery of coin
bones in outer space.
There was a frozen tide
that lived above our heads
we feasted in its shadow.
Shielded in its wave
our hated morsels would escape
these melting mouths of meaning
scattered on vacant signs
an empty shine.
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