[Part I: Then] Silvered white stone The gorge slopes reach tall Into low clouds For a glory known only to dead things And thus perhaps without value Yet the diggers and the wanderers In their hopes of extracting that very sliver Of flaccid meaning Every so often migrate
Trudging near-aimlessly Along the gloomy banks of contrivance Eyes darting to one side and the other Resting only in halted progress All the while longing To cast off their robes And tear off their ropes Reformed in the clear light of day And the black fear of night Channels for what is and what is not
[Part II: Glory] The drain The fog The undressed walkers pass The lifeless downward streams Flow upon their feet The time was then And now they wander ...entranced
