III
Brendon Randall-Myers
Where quiet penitents
Meditate on impermanence
And ethereal hands
Guide mighty blades
From point to point
On the immanent plan
Cut down by the billions
Fates clipped from the firmament
The cosmic scryer squints
And narrows her augury
The future a slum
Your enclave the present
Transience turns on all its old friends
The heavens precipitate
They do not forefend