Galilean, a hundred thousand nightfalls and you remain;
Trajectory broken like peasant legs beneath empire,
wristbone pinned to the petrified branch pearled around your words.
Black sclera in the wheat,
your hidden bones crumbled to seed,
they shake and shiver you along the upright rows,
a sibilance sentried through the sheaves, ergot whispering
gold of pleasure, bristlegrass, and peace to the palaces.
We lay down our heads in peat bog slumber,
neck-furrowed, sheeped and shorn,
brother and sister the lone tie about our middle.
We vein our days into a landlord’s cup.
This is our blood.
Because the world has curled up into a ball,
no end in sight,
and the music and the dusk and the breath
and the nails.