rafters of darkness slot over us
we are carved into the beams
black figures on burnt wood
An automata of blackbirds
return to the clocktower
wind down and rest
as the fox’s shadow
slinks into existence
Our backs on grave-earth,
stone a pillow, we watch
how night shovels its shade
over the city, moon; moon
Glowing wheel, rolling on
over tree and tower
laying down the darkness
we are buried under too
