Migration

[Part I: Then]
Silvered white stone
The gorge slopes reach tall
Into low clouds
For a glory known only to dead things
And thus perhaps without value
Yet the diggers and the wanderers
In their hopes of extracting that very sliver
Of flaccid meaning
Every so often migrate

Trudging near-aimlessly
Along the gloomy banks of contrivance
Eyes darting to one side and the other
Resting only in halted progress
All the while longing
To cast off their robes
And tear off their ropes
Reformed in the clear light of day
And the black fear of night
Channels for what is and what is not

[Part II: Glory]
The drain
The fog
The undressed walkers pass
The lifeless downward streams
Flow upon their feet
The time was then
And now they wander
...entranced