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.