It was a pulled thread,
a sinew strung with strain,
tune looped round our head:
make America great again.
Words we sang ourselves
as self we unmade;
a beautiful falling felled,
greatness great again.
The wind and cold are keen;
frost thorns my clattering pane.
The night is long and lean
and I awake again.
Press to ear this chambered shell.
Hear the roar of the shade.
Down deep where whales swell,
where songs are made.