it doesn’t count
this reliquary
rattling with the hail of time’s mistrust
of seasons out of phase
with the tumbler switches of reason
as fickle as our indecisions
tomorrow the hail will stop and
we’ll hail a cab back to the upper meadows
and count the bones of drought
the icons of a godliness revoked
deconstructing a construct
will you be the one to pull the last brick
from civilisation’s edifice?
over every shoulder there are guns
pointing their hair-triggers
now! now!
run!!
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