as an abyss
feet drag along worn paths
to the places one goes, precipes
from which to stumble again
down the desolate slope
clanging noisily still ringing hollow
finds every mountain and valley smooth
sparse trees brightest green no breeze to sway them
but in this garden
all things glitter
as dead as gold
never peace in the middle east
only news of growth that kills
passion rises to sinking hate
the network is that of one limp hand
clasping a million atrophied others
across a million miles
where the thickest book of faces, faces, faces
exhausts all but one
that breathes and sobs next door
