Nightfall—the sky's last
bit of color cloaked, hidden.
On the street, the intermittent
hoarse rush of traffic; another
ambulance, wailing, coming closer.
Faraway starquakes I cannot hear.
to recall the self—
and then forget it,
its folly, wondrous folly,
the body drinking from the fragile
chalice of the breath
unpossessable as chalice,
An empty stage
where the mind,