There is a hard art up there,

as it was before,

before the strung beads of sweat

set a face lost into this.

 

The name of it is unsure,

outside science or introduction,

a Braille hinted, the landscapes

say.

 

The settling, not a thought, exact,

but a movement of things taking shape,

is a real thing – a tact

witnessed in the company of

 

creatures that move and creatures that don’t;

things unseen and unheard of,

the spectacle of weather

to the quietest part of the skull,

 

a close expanse, a paddling to,

where unknown, it is

always.

Always under the last thing,

 

moss feet and floaters,

and the huge sterile glaciers,

passing onto, Sea or static,

and even now under you,

 

silent in the grave.