Catullus, you have lied.
You have lied, all of you.
You Shakespeare, have
fabulated sleep too in the
delve of the word.

Neruda, you have lied,
And only Ibsen braved
the fault of men:

I am alone
You are alone
And the quibbling breath
of this life will flower
inanimately in your ears,

and look below us!
a goading fall,
a threatening lunge
oh, vertiginous is this death!
i shout your name
and wait
for the quintessential echo:

a small muteness.