while the moon likes the dust that settles on your daimon
like so many hundred thousand motes of death, brought back to champion
the better notes, played in keys and octaves more refined; those that do not dampen
the mood of the spheres, still so titillatingly defined
as those worlds that revolve around the things that you hide behind—
the long scars, that walk strident across her bow
where the Earth—Karimang—was dipped into the ground, still waiting for knowledge of how
They would one day return; would They ever?
Things creep alongside me now,
looking, quietly, for heaven
to bury, hell to instigate a particular form of malediction.
Someone to watch over me. Someone to ask me how
I would one day burn, and melt away, in weather that feels like forty-one
degrees Celsius, and forty-one men waiting for death row. In sum:
a torture chamber, more or less, an island in the sun
pretending to be a garden.
The edges of the Supertrees are starting to turn
brown with heavenly, Ozymandianic envy.
Too late; don’t turn away. Don’t run—
you had your lot in life, your chance to pretend to take a wife.
Now I will turn you into a Pillar of Fault,
lining up nicely with the rest of the earthquakes that I desired would one day halt
your memory, returning, creeping into the daytime. Breaking down the sea-wall
I am coloured so heavily in the metallic that I am effectively blind. I still want it all—
the boiling seas, the corroding glass.
The aegis of all your haunted destinies.
A glimpse that should never have been seen
of the Concordance.