Hello from concrete. The alliances,
the overlaps are always born. A wife runs
from clay, nowhere she runs, with bright neglect
unlike one that weakens from the fittings of drums.
She hides lone yeas and odd nays. Hides no
with yes, and in hiding no she hides hello.
She avoids the languidness of balance.
She sinks into deeper earth less calm
than good beasts floating to cosmos dimly.
Years lost she runs in noise and armament.
She doubts the small halts of earth that throb her
with bricks and breakers, breakers or blunt drear
out of soaks in drums and tongues, the shortest drum
and the slimmest tongue, the thin tongue that disdains.
By sunlight, truths numb speech as it fusses.
The carnal ending is someone’s,
in the lifetime when the bestial drum renounces
those makers departing, in solitude, without skin.
Dogged maid running by the womb
and still in clay and calmness and still
of calm the never-darkening death,
inane, and still the slave and still her name,
gaze from this vacant sewer. What solitude,
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