“There is no consolation in the thought of God, / he said, slamming another nail
in another house another havoc had half-taken. / Grace is not consciousness, nor is it beyond.
To hell with remembrance, to hell with heaven, / hammer is the prayer of the poor and the dying.
And as wind in some lordless random comes to rest, / and all the disquieted dust within,
peace came to the hinterlands of our minds, / too remote to know, but peace nonetheless.”