December 4, 2025 #4

No growth of spire

The roots done not to line

With chisels or chimneys

It is not the enemy in choir

Reason doubts faded chalk

Hands scratch each outer rim

The clock hasn’t a voice

Neither has it an eye

The hole in the hill

Blasphemes ribbons of nothing

Pewter casts a shell

Over black buried bodies

Yearnings of fruit tinge

The mother’s fleshy ladle

None to taste the stick

On the outside