Notes of Ghost Priests Left to Mark Time from the Tower

They say the last clay
Slabs pressed with wedge texts—
Pressed in the first years
Of a weird new faith—
Made notes on the sky

To mark what might be
Next. No more notes next,
Would have been the best
Guess. We’d like to be
The last notes, if not

Made, then left, an age
Past this, but then we
Would hint at less pith,
Leave less of a taste
Of rust on the lips.

These words would not dare
Claim the notes we make
Could say what comes next.
Not that kind of text.
We care for the dark

More than the stars, doubt
More than the strange power
To say what comes back.
What seems to come back
Is lost. Loss comes back.