She swaths in,
a swatch of stardust
drooping off her wrist,
and takes a seat.
"What will it be?"
says the barkeeper.
"Anything," sighs
our darling dreamer.
She pulls out
a pen and notepad.
Symphonic scritches
of a nib
dissolve all her
social awareness,
and the moments pass.
This remains:
"Weep, Muses, weep.
The sound of scratching beckons
Memory,
cold as rain that seeps into your
bare bones,
and gets your socks wet.
Loose your tears to droop
like nectarines
from above--
cry, for something has been lost
that may well
never come
again.
Oh, say, dear sorrow-singers,
why this melodrama?
Why does the heart yearn for such redress as
simple comfort
and safe company?
I can't be the only one
who fears the night,
not out of fearing the dark,
but of fear from the absence of
the darling one.
Break, heart.
A cuisle agrah mo chroide
is run into the Night.
Weep, weep."