Falling into the Earth, but by the Earth embraced,
the world ensnares even bare, even divorced of green,
of ivy bright, of midnight in the yoke,
of light beneath the wave and waves as the lake shallows
to nothing, as the lake shallows to a stone
it swallowed, and the stone swallows itself in dust.
And I am this dust.
And my wife, this dust, latched to dust, we love.
The Earth falling at equal speed into the sun.
The sun falling into nothing.
At the core, the compasses point on, which the needle spins,
soddered to abyss.
The jailors keys float beyond us on an orbit ring.
None beg mercy.
But mercy comes, mercy bounds.
It binds this grave, falling drones beneath our song.
The lock turned echoes goes through the prison's hall
forever, gear turning, single metal note, no song ringing.
Do you hear it?
That droning note whose sound is nothing.
Against it, we speak such words, against nothing.
It is our melody that's heard.
Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather
by the high fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky
through the barred window, until bars of light
lit her eyes when she turned her eyes away,
between her and her friend.
And she would see him through a grating, too.
Thinking of the field, the turnkey said once,
after watching her, ain't you?
Where are they, she inquired?
Why they're over there, my dear, said the turnkey,
with a vague flourish of his key.
Just about there.
Does anybody open them and shut them?
Are they locked?
These bars of green wheat will be golden in a month.
The bars will brittle, our mouths full with nothing.
Nothing questions us, the questioners, under oath.
The oats claim lists, the husk abyss, to lengthen the verdict,
we plead innocence.