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In search of anything golden—rule, ratio, silence—

we gaslight gravity into stretched visions

of scarlet arches, of fire cast like seeds and glass

stuck in gutters. Our achy knees, our crawling, 

fingernails falling behind as we drag our bodies 

toward the hollow hum of a postlude. 

Anything for a semblance of safety.

The organ gives us clues on which way to go, 

as if we believed in things as silly as starting points 

or finished work. Some things gut you gently,

like pride, like pity. I’m trying to make sonatas

out of wreckage, or to at least speak clearly:

I’ve found that belief only moves forward,

but never returns. When we find the earth, 

we find her face down, each refraction of light 

playing bystander, playing O merciful god.

Can you believe it, how the plumes rose

over the once cold city? Can you believe it, here, 

to live alone with teeth and all the fur you could carry.

I loved a man once. I loved a man twice.

At the end of the rainbow is another body, begging.