Our pus-filled thumbs crack and bleed as they try
to make firm the pillars supporting the sky.
We started too late: tardy efforts, raw hands
infected arrival, new-formed on us, strands
who were near-formless blurs but for hungers and loins;
the sod tossed down open throats ready to swallow
a meal that vapors, thinkless, cannot enjoin
or consume; as they drift, it moves into their hollows,
for they’re kited on paths they cannot help follow.
A thought, or a panic, solids them, moves to action,
though it is too late, the nocturnal faction
bred them from the shadows: bred stomachs, like clouds,
and milked off the bodies and wills from these cows,
which are unfit to shore up the crumbling surround.