Only baffled harbor greets the ships of pilgrims

this hungry gazeless night, the night where no one

comforts in its wide wings beating. Tell me,

where have the gods all gone to hide,

smiling on some, changing others to horses?

Really, pin the moon. It doesn’t feel a thing.

Let the dim drain away.

The scrim comes later, and everything after begins

to tilt, so know my breath isn’t a rhythm, but mostly

a waiting room; all that rots must pass it by, all that captures

atoms of loneliness from the Petrof’s lowest white keys,

full of mindless static buzz as this child is full

of tragedies that taste of blood and unruly beginnings.

This aria is ending. The patron saint of leaving

hid in the almond grove,

made ugly music with the husks,

drank nickel water,

used what was left for tooth soup,

dies offstage.