They sit at cliff-top,
legs crossed at the damp-dust edge,
sweating through the cold.

Panting, they breathe through layers
of mist swirling round God's eye.

God's drowsy eyeful
slivers. We shake our shivers
into orange-red pulp.

Skull of day, artificial
eye, congealing, a newborn.

They sit at cliff-top,
legs crossed at the damp-dust edge,
sweating through the cold.

Panting, they breathe through layers
of mist swirling round God's eye.

God's drowsy eyeful
slivers. We shake our shivers
into orange-red pulp.

Skull of day, artificial
eye, congealing, a newborn.