On the last shore’s breast, the dusk of the sky-sand’s veil
gleams, abated torment, evening windows. Days felt
dealt what, in the end, came to pass, the elapsed
of the sun’s hill. What remained? The highway-hurrier’s
greying stain, the heart of the toothed wheel, glass
that burns in the twilight thresh: no more will the sight,
which burdens the pained, envelop the sky-veil’s span
at the night-shore’s calling: on the shin’s cusp
a lancing feeling falls through the right-then, where flashed,
in a while, the cart’s when. Frightened, the bridge’s linen
was gone and forgotten. Return to the matte, o blue,
far on the roads you have fared already, boil us
the frolicking red of our tears, the “still”, the “perhaps”.
From Futurama, 2010.