Under the Dead Sky

even when millions moved with the footsteps
of death,
the slow grinding of the dust,
still the trickle of hope
sought, the busted reliefs:
and so oft the night blows into cold recovery,
and i thought
again that people
were really something else:
so oft into the sound of silence, i sought
and prayed into the very throes of dying falls:
and so oft into the night,
i thought, only the dead knows
the cold silent crows,
the dying falls:
and even then, when god had so deftly died, a miraculously
determined fall, i thought
these people are very close
to there: