Hyena

To their amazement the hyena could sit and listen to Chopin or Bach— the Nocturnes, the Preludes, whatever, even Debussy’s Le Mer— and see them as ancient maps full of monsters and mermaids. Listen to them roar— Listen to them sing— the ones who die are the lonely ones, the ones who carry all your

Untitled

Two

Why, my silent friend, are you still visible? Even Orpheus, with his nightmare grip on a hideous truth, satisfies the divisible In us that wants all pain to be gone. His silence, friend, is all I can give you. His news of the underworld— That it’s there—is a battle cry for only two: She who

Regent Emergent

To whom should I address this verse except To you, my sleeping voice? For only you Can sing and still hear its song. Precept Will follow hard upon a regency too blue For eyes and ears except your own, that is, That are mine. Mind and mine are always one, So philosophers have shown. Orpheus