sing low
a hymn upon the subject
connected to the object
by spindle-thick tendrils of
intent
wrapped around feeble arms and
sent over fences
faces, forces
these blunt arrows carry unfeathered dreams,
which fall quietly in their courses
like nighttime to a sleeper
corrupted by fear and
desperate for air
the lessons of our angels
jeremiads of our teachers
reek of rancid smoke
our new keeper sleeps
beside a fire feature
where old masters shudder and choke
the somewhat blind, upon apostles’ dust—
once gusted up—
have now retired,
mounded up in moldy minds, their
underdone and under-sung desires
this song may soon, upon their tongues, expire
The Replanted Writer 