vagrant, you follow in the wake
& stand there in the break
as morn gapes & forsakes
unable even to call heaven down
to the now open but yet doom
already too late & still too soon
for the rest which remains unborn
in the emptiness where you quicken
as a world fades on another horizon
unknown a spectre that parts aghast
in the nothing which ends as the last
in time's invincible ruins reaching
a hollowness beyond touch & dream
in the tyranny of history's remains.
Gift of Tongues