Investiture
By Paul Cameron Brown
Our nights have cruel eyes
And have cast us about too thinly,
Fallen upon us,
Divested the attention of the wind.
Night comes to develop us,
Will polish our minds with
A precision lasting 'til daybreak.
Its damp coolness peaks with wretched effect.
Autumnal decay
Whereby the slow process of vegetation
Displeases the nostril,
Is but a preamble to greater violence
Leading tepid legislation in an orchestra
Toward greater effect.
The thin harmony of our lives
Positions no alarms whereby
We might use them.
The fabric mixture of existence, nothing but investiture,
Props to heighten necessary lies,
Strains at extinction,
The volcanic instrument life itself.
Goals are these same vehicles
To operate weak desires.
Frustration defeats a goal
That will not fit.