This world is a sepulchre,
this world is our tomb,
cradling the bones
of whoever was,
and whoever is,
and perhaps
whoever shall be;
This world
holds us all fast
as it surely weaves
through the shroud of stars,
the cloak of the Milky Way –
And even when
we’ve good and ruined this Earth
and have snuffed out our own light,
it will keep us –
the candle stubs and ruins of us,
our scars and silenced dreams;
It will carry us around the sun
like a book of Psalms
it never learned how
to read.
Halfway North 