In the Middle Distance
Windows break themselves
out of grief and spite
Old men walk until their
hearts explode
borne on this tide of bones
This river of snapped and
shattered shovels
This summation, this
blunt blank stroke
Your complaints have been noted
and a catalogue made
of your weeping dust
your helpless desire
and your deeds done
in the dark
in the silence
in the middle distance
We endured, we persisted
We ate everything, every day
Our reward is this spasm
Our solace this tumefaction
Our joy is to
never be warm again