The Everlasting Voices
Where once we would double-dig
the claggy clay with all our might;
our various jackets discarded;
grasping at handles -fate would be fair-
now we walk alongside someone else's fence
as if in need of a guide rail. And after will come
our lamenting wraiths howling as they must
their warning for men too well adapted, losing options.
Already whispers rise that will not stop for the stars.