Here’s a little story, moon flower
growing round a grayish heart, apart
from everything else.
It used to be in order, acid greens,
Men drove their little carts into the dark
to root it out.
And I found this strangest hole,
boarded up with wood and coal;
no more the men in rolly boxes
dig like foxes
for what shines,
basalt and brine,
confined in crystal mines.
The ink things confiscated,
migrated from the walls to the halls.
Falling, falling, falling,
the abyss a cistern calling,
but there’s no one to reply,
for the men have gone and died,
and what’s left inside is hiding, biding
time, biding time.