The kingdom’s frame of wire falls
like houses ushered into night,
quaking deep within their walls.
A drooping wreck of countenance
heaped upon the wreck of virtue
heaped upon the wreck of bliss,
machines all twisted wrung;
monoliths of wicked gods
thrown stark in rusting sun.
A silver Mt. Zion homeward calls,
a weeping lesion’s balm;
heaven—cast still in umber light—
is lined by bone and bolt
and heaped upon the wreck of form
and draped across a shape of stone;
the ghosts of want writ large
across its looming dome.
Bare lines make wild the hearts of men,
who break the bleak expanse with groans
and sagging towers, burning vistas.
Shackles of inconsequence shatter
where strides the Behemoth; its
exalting bellowed call
crosses our constructions,