Rust
Muffled bell, window fogged,
Behind before begun, to run
To the best of the old, to come undone
In phony hope, to be dogged
Asleep by a thousand futures —
Mule mind, simply yearning to stop
The trouble here, accept the sop
Of whatever easy sutures
Can hold it together — in the grand
Scale of things, a trivial pain
Some decent theory should explain
In terms of light or cash or land.
Writing won’t do it. And I doubt
That prayer will get us out of this
Or walking a lot will lead to bliss.
What form demands, a kind of rout
Amidst the platitudes of thought,
Is a stopgap at best, marking time
While the earth burns, a way to mime
The true cost, the pallor we fought.
There are certain weak points. And they are enough
To crash the whole thing. It doesn’t take
Violence or even effort, for the mistake
Is inherent. It has called our bluff.