Echoes

This is the valley bellow the
mountain of omnipotence, bellow
the myopic god whose breath
transports the scene from this quiet
lake, this still, this stubborn entropy. 
There are rash footsteps, reactive ice
and snow, combative smoke curling
into a frozen temperature, sere
landscape and inviting doors —
there is soft movement forward
into weakened sunrise.

Consideration erodes this scene,
transports it down fresh rills
like music slithering from a piano,
exploiting each weakness until the
only acceptable chord is the one
created by streetcars puncturing
midnight, mostly empty, mostly
carrying unrealized dreams and a
scattering of hope, a dollop of fear,
a taste of bile rising like the tide, like
your words, which still echo
long after their strangled birth.