One hand isn't enough to write

in these days

it would take two

and that the second rapidly master

the craft of the unspeakable:

to embroider the name of the star

that will rise after the next apocalypse

to espy the solid thread among the thousands

swaddling clothes, shrouds, cloaks

to carve dawn on a garbage-heap

Two hands aren't enough to write

in these days

and its thundering woes

it would take three, four

for life to deign to look in on

this white wretched wasteland