Tonight the world is brittle

a new quietus is withdrawing
an ebb
lacquered beneath the whirling spall
of frost-riven fire

dream-speech unengraving its ballast
whilst all the spectre trees
pull porcelain sap
into shadow

the night is cavity
within thunder

i rise to creep
through woven sleep
two breaths
trapped like vocables of earth
in a lake of darkness

i belong to this weight

but also to that pure saltus
balanced in the scalpeled air

whose vitreous whisper
will one day
break me.

(c) Seth Grube