In the barmkin hushed unsleeping
Atop the battlements, amid the flames
Sentries prowl, fog enshrouded:
We fear the foe without a name
The foe we fear but never see
Or fear to see it, conversely
Hovering, always, apparently
Close as breath. But can it be?
Well, is there anything out there?
Shaking in the silence, how we forget.
To spring the trap door down below
And climb up out our oubliette.
— September 19, 2017