Sepulchral Jerusalem, lay to rest my
Empty songs and promises, the last
Light fading out on the horizon,
This burial song steeped in autumn rain
And petrichor – the scent of empty vessels of the year.
In waste-sick rooms and
Hours of the moon something chants;
A long-silent god, a song or a sentence
Wicked like the stain of sacrificial altars
Choked with sagebrush and thistle
Down, down in the deepest
Time before an ending was conceived,
Where golden calves melt into air.