On a liminal sea a lost saint gambles heaven.
Chanting evensong his nimble voice
sets the valence of each note alight.
In this age of blight man eats man.
This leaves the angelic host seething.
Let’s beseech them: let the living live.
In time a slant can give the lame balance —
can it teach a man to sing of his banishment?
This sibilant night is a gate —
time hinged to light — one last shot