In the burned places where light is ash

of slaughtered stars

where silence stiffens

to rigor mortis

where air is death

delayed too long for mercy

we wait in vain as we always have

for the aliens

or the seraphim

for Oppenheimer's optimal blossom

we wait in vain for the asteroid

its aeon come round at last.

In the burned places between our walls

of phantom data

between the winds

that blow contagion

between these minds

clenched tight on godspeak shrapnel

we search in vain as we seldom did

for the history

the hypothesis

for Ariadne's blood-red foresight

we search in vain for the enemy

inherent in our mirrors.