The lull draws down our pious bows
to lie with dying incense, let the cloy
of unwash weigh us low in a droop of undone space.
Heavy with turbid midday’s wine and idle
in thick, a tame god’s granting
foolish prayers to bathe in substance.
Now I am here like air in bread.
Homesick for the whisk of passage
censer swing alighting gusting’s kin.
But all smoke settles, remains.
Was the world ever thin enough for we
who live in going?
This hollow now is some death,
the inert ferment robbing body, blood.
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