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[Part I: Then]

Silvered white stone

The gorge slopes reach tall

Into low clouds

For a glory known only to dead things

And thus perhaps without value

Yet the diggers and the wanderers

In their hopes of extracting that very sliver

Of flaccid meaning

Every so often migrate

Trudging near-aimlessly

Along the gloomy banks of contrivance

Eyes darting to one side and the other

Resting only in halted progress

All the while longing

To cast off their robes

And tear off their ropes

Reformed in the clear light of day

And the black fear of night

Channels for what is and what is not

[Part II: Glory]

The drain

The fog

The undressed walkers pass

The lifeless downward streams

Flow upon their feet

The time was then

And now they wander

...entranced