Ah make me a believer
Ah make me un-believe her
Ours is a fruitless labor
Base and benign
Laid to the waste endeavors
Red on the rind
Out in this listless posture
Seeds in the sun
Dream of the forest fire we will become
On to the yawning chasm
Bleached by the dark
When obsolescence has them
Visions depart
Yours an unwieldy welcome
Prickled and obtuse
Too wary to wear it out
To smooth it with use