I cannot play the instrument of lamentation,
it’s impossible to tune —Laynie Browne
What blankness may not secure soft detours may attain
if this farce does not recede there still remains the
discourse of doors, moors, fires, stars oars, cures
Even emperors are only men we want to enter. Centers
quite intractable. The empress expressed herself in dissent
tried to extract herself but was first straddled, then swallowed
Mentor of consent sent misrepresentations, anon polyphonic
driving clothes around. Backdrops disappear in silenced bodies
On which paper would you write to your idol?
Shoulders pressed without a word
The night is dark and we in it secret, a first song
I cannot sway the dissonance of initiation, irreconcilable moon
