Thin is our air,

    and pale the sky.

I stand on front stoop,

    tongue cleaved to flesh,

    and shiver softly

        with hollow head.

Friend,

    If the sun returns hot

    to crash in dry tempest,

        know that I have left early,

            with only dust behind.

    For though I am a mere pilgrim

    to these streets,

        all is familiar:

I know the decay of man

    steeped in wealth,

and the blessed scent

    of dark soil turned rich;

    I have heard the screaming void

        of raped autumn nights,

    and the quiet hope

        of gentle open evenings;

    I have felt the heat

        of crackling wreckage,

    and the soft bed of prairie

        wet with evening dew;

    I know the ends of our idols

        and the joy of their burials.

    So if wind quits

    and earth turns bare and burned,

        you can walk by my door

            without a knock

        and follow on the hard trail

            from cement to stone and dirt.

    Later, if by ditch

    you find me,

        rouse me without restraint;

            for my dreams I have woken into,

                and I know our justice is late.