By noon it was canary,
cat's eye and corn grain.
As shadows crept through the hills,
the sea turned bilious.
Dusk spilled a goodbye tunnel
down a shifting sky.
Then driftwood, fuming the air
with its smoke and cough.
After night crashed, we picked up
plans for tomorrow.
When will the words be opened
and the book unsealed?
Not till the time of the end
of empires and beasts.
Then will the dream be written
according to men?
Not till the signs and vision
have become as one.
How shall we learn to know them
as true evidence?