This paper has a blue mark,
Shall be rolled up uninked,
Lit like a vesper candle

And the draught will
Draw it up out into
------------ the dark

Where the moon rubs a
------------ calloused hand
Over the chimney pot

Then when the dialogues of cold
Tear at leaf
At land's end

And you are
Watching the
Cones crackle
The peat bricks fume

The moon shall spit
This black
Back down the throat of your home

And its shadow will
Sulk by the firetongs,
A still blue mark.
 

Ancient Verses

Clouds are the cerebrum
of an immense God
Today that God does not think
As noon maddens under the sun's reason
life scurries for tucks
folds of parching earth
The tongue of the sky
Salves the roof of its mouth
By the incision of light
Struck dumb
The cool of siesta 
is a bowl of dust
Men grumble ancient verses 
Thirst is pricking like thorns 
Our tearducts sting
We cry grit

Like piedogs 
desiccating in the sun's smithy 
We plead for rain