Rift, and Broken Places
This place —cold and famished,
abandoned —
Recalling issues of broken mortars
And mildewed, hinge-leaning pestles . . .
Desiccated and forlorn,
Like a lychgate in a church of battle,
This place reeks of unholiness, with the
Spring of wild, rioting grass, invading
Where we hitherto gathered and sat the
Setting sun out of the wilting clouds.
Fragile fraternity hangs on the decaying soot
Of fireplace metal basket, rusty and time-dispersed.
The unknown saw has gnawed mightily
At our sacred trees and our shrines have crumbled;
Broken doors and lintels devoured by wood ants
Raise questions about wood dust lodging at
Our lungs.
There’s cold serenity here, my kinsman —
And a rift of dismemberment.
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