Too much to be sick of,
too much waste,
lives in graves too early
even for heaven’s grace.
There are the hard facts,
the knife’s edge economy of hard facts.
There is the cold gray star of truth,
light years distant, already extinct.
There is the granite face of justice,
impervious, unscalable.
There is also the grain of this polished wood
reflecting magnesium light
filtered through frosted glass,
reminding me of evening
laid across the crisping ice.