Midnight nears the clock clicks its heelsnAnd the birds go wandering homenTo empty nests in cardboard housesnBuilt on vapour smoke and foamnWhere furniture and flesh court dust and rustnTogether and alonenLike trees falling into the forest no one listensnnWhat happens in the night timenAfter the sun washes its handsnOf everything yellow light preventsnFrom the dangers of the dancenOf darkness uninhibitednDo you even want to take that chancenYou might end up on a list of missing personsnnBlack crows beckon from their ledgesnHigh above the groundnThey shake the quiet they've gatherednFrom their wings and scratch out soundsnWhich terrify all passers bynThe truth is hard to hear once it's foundnThen they swoop like angels burned off Jacob's laddernnThe holy man announced his plannTo turn wine back to waternHe was strung up by the drunken mobnChanting the time for miracles is overnThe wrapped his body in newspapernAnd burned him in the words he could not alternSaying unto a mirror one should never try to flatternnSunlight rummages the beachnAnd cleans out hollow shellsnThe sand flames sufficiently heatingnThe shadows of lonely souldnWalking on the fringes of wavesnWhich pounce and fade farewellnTo spoil a hope which springs eternally on the surfacennThe scientific poet dresses upnHis images with the factsnHe hangs on chains from certificatesnIn silver frames behind smoked glassnHe writes everything that has yet to occurnHas already happened in the pastnWe elevate wise men by digging ditchesnnSoldiers fill their pales with steamnFor bulletshell-like spinesnWhile trees live and die repeatedly in ringsnWhich mark the march of timenIt crawls by slowly for those entrenchednAnd for others it speeds unkindnWhile soliloquies to skulls become confessionsnnThe box we would have distance holdnA lifetime without blamenIs to heavy for the skywaynWithout faith-chariots and chainsnAlthough it bloomed on an ancient tonguenNothing yet from nothing ever camenWe bury our answers six feet beneath our questions