Tongue

Evening compresses our city beneath
A caked-on sky. Its black scream has bored into
The last limp of the day. With November's teeth
Tapping at windows, we try hard to pursue
The frail dreams fleeing into night's hungry noose
Then, resigned to drop back with the damp, we crew
A colourless barque over the dim, diffuse
Words that were once will. Come down, they say, regard
The waste. There can be nothing more to reduce
Nothing to distil out of this, only charred
Stones in time. We all march in jaded parade
With blemishes still bold. The wall, rising, guards
A blunt flame. Lit, it can never be unmade
We sense this, in the great dark, and are afraid



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