Even though unwelcome,

 

cast attention in an iron hour

and one can hear waves of terrain groaning — 

forces mobilize in unrushed power,

and worlds warn one another by stoning.

Man would carve some muscle here, atoning

already for his descendants’ tower

where smiles will crack over skulls for cloning,

loving a mirror more than a bower.

 

But man is nowhere, not yet in fashion.

On such planes of indefinite terror

sledges that pound lack all sense of passion,

and no mouths speak of what could be fairer — 

stars just parcel their reluctant ration

as a pall awaits its lukewarm bearer.

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