Who stands, the crux left of the watershed
bearing with the catarrh of the twilight
that sinewy sight that strove of sound unsaid.
What lip eschews the running Muse, its maw
on spring’s aphasic drear; uncounted seer
quietly tearing from the height, appalled and
short-stocked sitting on the wrested watch
arranging useful cogs of livid ash
to pride the fire of its balderdash;
gone home and back again, aroused to taste
taller than grass and slaked of static waste
buds close unpleasant spring, the laugh and wind
rescinded from the proliferative root
to sleep upon this kinder calling’s moot.