DIRGE, VII

orpheus cut out and singing, 7 dancers [bunny, fresno, canto, haiti, zygote, stearns, aphrodite]

Unhinged from the ceiling, the gray moth was wind-scatter by Wednesday.

Then nothing left, not even a frame for a sentence-shed.

Last winter the bicycle spokes catch a hand.

Everyone in a hurry to take the remote, give back a shoulder—until then.

Behind the TV, I am watering pieces of music.

During commercials we might live on the same channels, eat the same cereal

before Orphic chords scramble us through artery-streets in need of better cloaks for January.

I have grown new considerations for purple, for melody, for the play—the theatre misplaced and fuzzy.

One adjusts and can be two or three thousand bits at the bottom of the issue, the fairy tale lesson of the castle and boat.

Stay behind the dilapidated garage, sorry for your disheveled anguish.

Whom have you told?

The windows can be purified from bloodshed, the filthy blackboard effaced—thrown out, a fact.

Park your car where the bruised sky collects declarations, before expunged.

The house detaches from the gelatinous sea animal, but there is always a new friend.

Press here to become curious again, in love with nothing but the arrival of stage, obsessive singing.

In the meantime, we must go quickly; it is dangerous—and stunning.

Night swallows the sequin stars, moving the clouds cloudy.

You must drink the anodyne, sequestered in proverbs, regenerate eventually.

The sea urchin drowns the book of explanations in another book about a Book.

We’re inventing time to glue the paper guitar back on to Orpheus’ missing arm.

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