Trouble

The unspoken dream of
hammer on iron -
those black shadows
gathered
to the surface
of the workable form
of the world -

and the night,
brimmed with a
dulling bronze comet,
and gold coals spread
in dying splendor
by cursed heels
along shores.

Words cast out
come back
unanswered
as God's own Silence;
God's own nights
almost lonesome as our own,
nearly sure as traces home.