The mortar of daylight shed its skin,

to be alone in the pearl of the moon.

the lamp cries electronic scratches into

the cracking walls. Furrows bind the skulls,

when rocks are ancestors.

Only the beginning heartbeat hears the

celebration of creation. Afterwards the

throb of pain and time wear on the wooden tubes,

the pages of age

turn in each night below

the gold, below the black, and

into the void.