These words are rivets
that steel our flapping hearts

when the wind dies: that
is all that will matter;

those etched, scribed,
shaped and moulded

linguistics of a broken age.
Add them up and throw

them to the leering sky
that refuses to break its

judgemental stare.
In a world away they

listen and are awed
to tears, while we dine

and chime crystalled
liqueur that only

makes us all the
more mute.