Piedigrotta
James Goldmann
“And on your deathbed
You inexplicably said
‘The sun is masking the clouds’”
He gracefully unlocks the door
And we wade across the threshold
As six black eyes bore into mine
He pacifies the animal
A cursory glance o’er my back
Reveals the light receding
And at the first of nine sharp ivory gates
My final thought in crystal
“And I have become the drought”
Oh, the indistinct discord
Oh, the crux of sound abhorred
The sun is masking the clouds
And I have become the drought
The sun is masking the clouds
And I have become the drought