Teeth grate on steel girds, glistening in stark blazes of revelation, alien, rapid in shuddering concussion,
What then is the destination, but the whalebone yard in its white limericks, collapsed to the end of their devices, breath has sighed its dispersions into the aether,
Last light in these cloistered narrows, gravel strewn banks, stirred by the lonesome violence of its passing,
Ache on the ever shortening tallow, its frail shadow undulations thrown in quiet tides,
Bray of hollows fed to momentum, disgorges charnel throat to tear the deep morn from dream, spectral in the terrible purpose of its visitations,
Pickaxe and salt change hands, in smooth relentless bore, through and through the tiered earth, pressing upward from its molt skin, through eye tooth aimed at heaven