The rings of stone and the scorched sphere
collude and mock
from their perch in the West,
and I am dread and wonder
and dry as death.
A stone myself under the stunted moon
and the pit of the sky.
Flying into future.
Funneled along the dark path.
With the sinew spray on my face and feet.
How can this be
under the small circles of the point
and her grinning ashy ball?