This Hour

Leyla Guirand

There will be no grand requiem,

no fervent psalms,

no crowning defender

when the limits

of our art

are tautened and tested.

May you make the grade.

The source of the mangy beasts

and white butterflies

will receive you.

Moth-eaten scrolls

of reincarnated clerics

will shepherd you.

May they not surrender you

in this hour of lightlessness

as the rivaling spores,

untrodden,

form like the suckling

mouth of the bairn.

Eventide is nigh, lamb.

Come lay within this scalloped interval.

We’ll repose until the morrow,

awaiting our prestige.