I rifle through it all
Lyra interrupts me; a stretch, a depth. it passes

I imagine blood, a bent mirror of blood
the becoming of a concerto

the payment, selling of debt
the salt between hands, taint to moisture

when Rachmaninov performed
he did not compose. do you not see?

paraphrase, it becomes you
or do not, merely let open

beaks wide open     yes
black is the wind, pouring

the grey silence emanating
instruments set aside

beacon of what, pillar of what?
stretch marks on your skin, light, faint to read

your tongue is conclusive
white becomes volatilised, treetops paled

self-deceased, a compound of flesh
push her to the throne, lower the tin crown

piling up, only to crumble
leaves and photographs, undespoiled?     forgotten

even in my imagination
the crust is breaking - no more

do you not see, Miserere?
dust on lungs, fingers, in cessation, twisting