All day the solstice wore grey:
we withdraw to the deep night
where bone drops from bone
into the cooling places.
Food falls from our hands. Straw.
Life has not lived at this table
since the sprung god died,
grapes turned blood on his tongue.
Stripped for the pit all these years,
we suffer a scourge in each raw cut,
the void a smell in every festering.
There is no help in us.
We crumble on bedrock,
do not greet the disordered dark,
nor feed the god descending
from our crooked stars.
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