there's a dimly lit carving

station--eleven silver blazes

shy of a disciple.

too abstract for a fine cut of

meat, till a line strands a

dance floor.

it's the sound of birds drowning

in pockets of water--the gossip

of music.

something continues the rise of

an occasion, a reception area of

body languages too angular for

bones.

those that have shown up, resolve

in very private ways--when & how

it is they will make their exit.

before they know it.