Here it is, the new installation in the hals of sad stories:
A shadowy attic
The North Sea coast
I am inspired to salvage
A poorly varnished secretary
Offers this mysterious sacrament
A cream colored note
I love
I have come to bury
In defiance of the Lord’s fiat
I dwell willfully
My mind redecorated
In the manner of a cool
Windowless basement
We were poets
We were full glasses
Left on the brink of the bitter ends
I read the two words
Uttering in harmony
My hatred for the five insipid marks
For their simplicity
For their naivety
I sing them tunelessly
In imitation of the careless notation
and find them flat
And so it’s possible
This is the plainest song in all England
Its dingy ghost
Stands without appeal
Against the intrigues of history
They are not witches
That clumsily conjured it
Merely humiliated alchemists of language
Dashing on the shallows
Of the explicit
The choir of Daedalus
They were moved to tears
Staring at the impartial sun
Not for loss
Not for injustice
But from a quiet
Unspoken pride
Midday relaxes
On the open windows of the studio
I worked all morning
Priming this canvas
Mixing these paints
Paying too much for this brush
It approaches the tabula rasa
With dark intent
Strikes seven empty tones
and drops silently
We loved
