No chart, or disguise, now
can help me through.
I carry these logs into a stateroom,
in a state myself, start
a concerto without a whit
of talent, or training, or, for all that,
preparation. The mourners leave
changed. It is autumn. It is cold
in the evenings. Even the dust on the
stereo is ninety percent skin. The dust
on the typewriter is purer.
Around midnight, around Mid-October,
Stacey calls from Oxford, saying,
"How are things in the dim region of
Weir, dimwit?" I hesitate.
To answer a joke with a joke means
you are serious. "I'm hung up on you,"
I say, and the calm undersea silence
goes on and on, through me
and out, forever.
