Saint Monday

Angels regarding discarded pinions,
They can’t be rebought for trinkets and rings,
Ageless eyes glance out at ancient dominion,
Trapped in silent and gaugeless old strings.

Whose are these trees? and why is this mountain
fenced from broken old mill into town?
Whose is this warehouse forlorn and enormous?
All the machinery’s all broken down.

Sandpaper, rust, oil in the lines,
Waiting to fire us back to the good times,
Playing out tunes on a broken guitar,
Trying to bring down the fire from the stars.