Sepulchral Jerusalem, lay to rest my
        Empty songs and promises, the last
Light fading out on the horizon,
        This burial song steeped in autumn rain
And petrichor – the scent of empty vessels of the year.
        In waste-sick rooms and
Hours of the moon something chants;
        A long-silent god, a song or a sentence
Wicked like the stain of sacrificial altars
        Choked with sagebrush and thistle
Down, down in the deepest
        Time before an ending was conceived,
Where golden calves melt into air.