Our shadows be frozen to the street.
Without vectors lovers can’t meet.
Century gods are like sprinters,
They don’t run time’s marathon.
No excuses for evil done or doing.
Reasons not be otherwise than lies.
Wouldn’t have power and greed
Or deadly, supersonic armories.
The flowering of youngest light
Could warm us at a touch,
Chaos lose all momentum
And midway to zero speed– restored.
Then it might rain and rain and rain
Slowest, saddest tears, of that god’s heaven.