Who will sing for us now
With such velvet precision in this abandoned temple?
Who will stand beside us in the silver choir
To clutch the manes of angels when they tremble?
How are we to take these broken shards of love and
Gild them now with unquenchable rage?
Did you ask if you could bring a friend?
When the sky burns pink and orange above the sand
I hear your voice in the clouds’ incandescent edges.
Where the impenetrable emptiness stares back and scoffs
I hear your voice in the streaks of hope below the stars.
Where the gears collide to force this day into the next
I hear your voice in their herculean turning.
Did the one you dream of ever come to you?
Did you see her dancing there for no one else at the end?
Your Sunday girl. Your answer. The sound it makes when
Everything is lifted up before the light so all of us can see inside it.