Sunup, sliver of wonder cast on red.
Now dew—as timid serif—knits a layer.
Ghost rays, word-drawn in even rows, tile era,
reel its worn, even, inward, drowsy arts.
Oh grey, a last ink fires—dim—its awed
wonder, not sacred now, for evil spun us.
Note: This poem has not yet been published and is available upon request.