the concrete will outlast us—
why, once, was that so comforting?
perhaps conceit of youth, or firm command of ignorance
yet now it does not seem so safe to dream of rebar and of rain
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the sanctity of ruin tells a lie of roman nature
that statues are as white as jesus
and the gods are still, and silent
out on the highway, the sun will be rising soon
so believe, believe, in little things—
there are are gods among the antlers, and the wingbeats
who are not named in ours or any other language
who watch us, and who wait
