If by retribution’s dreamt undrawing
is backshadow resurgent,
score settling for the resentful, negated of their due—

But all I sought for was stopped clocks,
and to jumpstart there an absolute
where granite outlives now-documenting
  to bring back the dawn before this day’s night.

In singularity
  read through Hawking rigor or through Musk speckle,
which has standing?—
  the volcano to demand its patterns smoke,
or the lava-flight
  to scope which pattern break?

In the latter valleys:

as a stubbed toe broaching
  the shutting cattle gate,
a narrowed and crooked course, interrogating.

by tongued electricity,
  to jolt and awaken mercie,
by intervening angel-strait
  than abyss chiselings,
no matter the statues or our path,

save it vibrates and whiskers still.

--Douglas Blake Olds