Long circles of the wheel
Was I arctic flat
The singing was sterile craft.

A brief bubble
Reflection rainbow, I
The songs unsheathed, alive
As hot pulsating rain
And scorpionweed suffused the desert spring.

Even in Chernobyl, the birds chirp now
But inside my holocaust heart
Black quiet gropes.


They tell me I make progress
I am now a mud cottage,
Solitary on the slopes.
Mice nest timid in my roof
Skitter, chew holes
For the breeze
To squeeze in
The gold dusk peeps
The door creaks
The leaves brittle, rustle
The motes swirl
There is music, again.
The castrato sings.