Box 1

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Box 2

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It stood here, two by three by two,
a wind-worn vessel for seasoned crew,
and sundry youth – you shared this boon,
this brick altar of pulsing air,
at which you knelled, dumbstruck,
scaled starry stair to rolling moon,
heralds of a calcite prayer,
sky flexed and folding underfoot.

And then, in undimmed smoke tinged night,
you find that empty plinth, bare slab,
an ashen ruin, scourged and drab.
Wiped bare, no crumb,
nor elegy,
to mark this truth – those flights,
aliyahs under wan starlight.

A temple now of memory.

A void where there should be ecstasy.