History is dismantled music; slant,
bleak on gravel. One amasses silence,
another chastises silence with nettles,
stinging ferns. I oscillate in their jaws.
The whole gut listens. The ear winces
white nights in his talons; sinking mire.
He wails and a comet impales the sky
with the duel wink of a wasp’s burning.
Music dismantles history; the flambeaux
inflame in his eyes with a locust plague,
a rough gauze bolting up his mouth unfolds,
so he lashes the air with ropes and roots
that converge on a dreadful zero,
a Golden Age. Somewhere, an old film,
Dusk solders on a cold, barren coast. There
I am a cenotaph of horns and stones.