I sift the cold grey ashes through the grate
And think about the book. Apocalypse,
A trek through remnant earth and after-fate.
I read it by the fire, read the slips
Of consciousness, the fractal paragraphs
Of disconnected love. The road bereft
Of “godspoke men,” a field of epitaphs
In random piles of ash and bone.
It open on the table by the chair
And curled into the blanket as the fire
Collapsed to ashes, smoke, and ember glare.
And still this talk of God beyond desire.
I kneel this morning, push the broom along
The ashen stone, this church devoid of song.