Dear Orpheus



Bright alley-oop, the nightingale’s munificent cry
would later be remembered as song,

                                                        but for now
settles in the back of the throat like a cough.

Is not any haunt or prophecy this burden, as it passes
from one station to the next? Is not sex the matt or gloss

that decides purchase?
                                    It provokes the mind to a sort of culpability

hitherto unaware of—these sheaves of music,
this predilection to name. When we arrived

we were invited to invent one another in various forms.
Me, the lyre. You, the head absent its body.







--Joshua Kryah, 2004




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