Look to the furthest extent of days—
when the thrown arc of time’s matter
runs to ruin on a stony celestial bottom.
Send your wail along the temp’ral arch—
no, not an arch, it’s cyclic—
no, cycloidal—the head tears back in fear—
but only to overcalculate—swooping back
in a larger move to the front—at any rate—
send your wail to follow time as it may go—
leaping, rudderless—powerless to
edge for the left or right. To this on-go,
of jagged blocks and oblongs, only add
your own wail—to be silenced in
the ruin in that far extent.
-2002