Babe, it’s getting cold
In corridors where dust still dreams of men,
The clocks repeat their hollow, measured tone.
We speak of peace, then fracture it again,
And call the broken syntax flesh and bone.
The cities twitch with wires, hum and ache,
Each signal pulsing hunger dressed as light.
We consecrate the rubble that we make
And sleep inside the grammar of the night.
No god arrives. The hope is getting old.
No final word will settle what we tire.
Babe, the world is turning sharp and cold
Throw my poem, silently, in the fire.
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