"The Grandmaster"
in the inner reaches of cloud-filled space,
she goes on and on the radio, rejoicing songs that clang,
the seagulls go out at midnight, scouting out the view,
there is hope that is peaceful, there is peace that is hopeful too.
in a wave of transcendent madness, she hides her face from sadness,
a noble watchmaker that is worthy, a plot twist racking heap and being resown,
being plotted a different way, voices that never change,
the open field of soundshield grass goes in meadow hand in hand,
making out a maker’s land, he does it all with one stand.
by Ben Bussewitz
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