Slate

Beam's strip across the night

call the doors without the light

like long keystones beyond their edge

and stretch between sins

to flatter their lies

of centuries to collect

and to peel the skins

to wind back the words

to pray to the witless nib

and shun the hors d'oeuvres.

So peer under the floors

of chalk versus ink

and sigh for scribblings to grey

and to strap on the faceless shrink

to lie for the left-overs

and frame their spite

and glue their ceiling

but never abandon the night