Gathering Wool

As I think I walk through an orrery

Of aspirations in parallel to the sixth constant

And oppression in madness trims the borders

Where the feet of the dead pursue

And embrace every stranger.

Though chastity is born of consecration

The chasm of lust denies

The broken glimpse of a benevolent hell.

And we beckon, crying,

Smelling of the air we breathe.

Through finality and permanence

The print, fox furred, furrows its eye

Across the still starless sky.