at the burial of cliches the storm brewed
in a teacup. stirring it you reached for sugar.

dressed in black, we’d come early for the opera.
sitting in potholes where her voice wouldn’t reach us,

the flower on your breast is undressed with mud.
a tragedy, a tragedy, O it’s one we could not avoid.

pity the pitier in the pit. you turn and touch me,
saying, with dreaming eyes, held upon clouds,

“Der Hölle Rache Die Zauberflöte.”
I nod my head, pretending anything else matters.