people sing
they sing in their bodies
they sing in their lonely places
oh the heart of it
a chorus of individuals
breaking notes
upon a page
black-headed
measured
solitary
catastrophes
throbbing vibration
this is the music of it
symphony
cantata
a welling of voices
rising beneath
the horizon’s baton

we are vagabonds
of our despair
hopeless
hidden
castrati
begging in the night
be still
while I listen
it’s ok to wound
it’s ok to be wounded
we are all in danger
of memory and its consequence