After long days of trying
to report on the ruins
we’ve managed only
a few lines on metal and dust
then the skull’s airy psalm—
those moments coming
closest to peace on which
all of our summoning rides,
where we wonder how
we’ll fill in this space
in which nothing will settle?
The little that’s left behind
deliberates, looking for things
to be lit from within,
some evidence of a breeze.

Until someone adopts a guide’s
voice as if standing at the edge
of some canyon speaking only
of the constant of river and rock
and the last of any gods captured
falling down to their knees.