Desist, desist:
There is no allaying
the sunset,
to destine this crumbling palace,
Palestrinian resonance, elsewhere.
Din, din,
the aura that what
arrives leaves hazed,
a hazed shaded sound
light in the depth of glass,
dim, dim,
till there, naught,
and no one nor zero,
but an echo: the dwindling given,
the coming and going
goes without you
or your aid.
And why should it not?
What might be a silhouette
but to fade?