what remains here, after you,
makes sound only the finest instruments
can detect--waves
from deep space

the December blast outside
a summer breeze compared to dead air
in this heated tomb

quilts you left smell of us
wrapped in two of them, I'm still
shivering, staring at the
door you shut,

surprised
it did not shatter,
so bound by ice

not one
of the moon's mystic seas is filled
with their yelping  

though those
haunting harmonies save me from solitude  
on the naked prairies

the sky, cold, awash
with wispy clouds, carries their sour song,
a dirge no creatures emulate

like they, I howl at the proud wolf moon;
it ignores me as it does them, but  ‘tis regally round
for only a blink in time, then mournful
as it wanes to penumbra  
in earth’s shadow

the wild dogs and I
cease our serenade, but wait in darkness
to cast another refrain when the ornery orb again
filches the dying sun’s light

we are not atoms in the dark
we are not Adam's in the garden
we are not Atman's in the seat of kosmos

we are adumbrated sound, found in this form;
light in the n o   w.