The manner of the question
Determines the song, can you long dance, sober though?
Where the throat went
The eye can no longer go
But seeing can also be waiting.
The curse of music
And the occasional privilege of feeling
Are brushed away like the
Better skulls of the shuffling and the gallant,
Their footfalls might strike someone as entertainment
In this way the evening talks freely
About the name of the day.
The generous trees seize an old sky.
These expert animals
Blind and dropjawed
Dogs who carefully conceal
Their ancient missing points,
Often mistake themselves for horses
Until the moment they are rendered
Unturned they are known
For their opera of grousing
A famous achievement which resembles nothing.
The stones of the living say nothing to the present,
They delight in the liberty of their public name.
Together we speak as someone who turns
An empty eye into verse.