A Canorous Coma

A canorous coma is crossing
us, casting curtains,
and making us dream,
not conjure or cull
the presages of future famines,
the wailing of women
in the low-lying steppes
that all our darknesses are.

Worn out as hardly woven,
bovine sons of Wotan,
what wear has befallen them?
no more weaned in weaponry,
but benighted in their weak,
will-bereft existence.

Former benisons turned to burdens,
the self self-encaged and alone
in sackcloth of its conscience.