Was it true then that there were men made all of iron and stone.

Men who could stand against the daily wind
and look to the north, to just past gaze and further,
that foggy line of splotch horizonbound
where it seems all dreams just make to lying.
Spreadeagled and barren they make to lying
as their sunweathered drapes just sprawl out
like flying tendrils in the breeze, naked it seems,
all dreams, all dreams naked
and laying splayed out windcoddled.
And was it true there were men who could stand and see this and not bend.

Was there fire there, somewhere.
Was there fire in she, fire.
And did it fall from now and slip to then like all things
or it was it something more.
And were there ghosts in nightdress dancing daisied like
through candlefire and coming to rest like pillowdown
on that tired head when night is long or was it something more.
Were there thousands of them crawling out through windows
like ashy fog and blinding out the eyes of all the souls who lay there
watching without whisper
or like the slipping from the then to now was it something ever more,
was there a thrushing in that nimble crux like there was in the other.