A pitched drone
that alloy-plated

bark
laps against

leather-brown
tongues

Their tidings
hold fast

*
To what
does it
all boil
down?

*
To go
it alone

there-
after

I'm afraid
we're all out

of sorts / we
left no stone

untuned

*
Informed I may
have to leave

my relations

are ill
at ease the current's

infirm
at pains

to make / itself clear