The centuries are resting
in their final songs
slow hymn we wake to

when night has no purpose
but to describe the glass wall
being built in the south by men

who claim their actions accord
with a vast algebra
we cannot comprehend

whose words descend the billboards
in every direction
except the mountains

with their eyes in their pockets
they ask us to think
of necessity

as they divide
every western river
from its origin

and lead
the diminished forests
to their silence