no rhythm
no long, yearning stanzas
no swinging scythe
evening hued grasses

a hurried social hour
a stratagem
a standing on laurels
when perhaps resting
would make more sense

better still
tossing them away

no hidden beauty to unlock
by stripping back
aching facts of labor
but something warm
beats under all,
wordless against words

in the morning is a word
and from that word
spins heavens and hells,
matters of all days
up into earthly purgatory
and on