It’s music riding away,
the swiveling gaze,
the cinemascopic survey from wherever you are to nothing.
You will find no novel, no luminous device to welcome you.
You cannot abide in pleasure here, for nothing responds to you,
or lets you respond to the world.
It’ll never forget you, this world, but neither
will it tell anything about you. Your bones
will serve as monuments for little fish,
your ribcage a cathedral. Or maybe
you will become rain.
That’s fair and it’s not fair,
but my bonny, my whole/some,
my tart Lady Zoe, you keep nobody,
and nobody ever keeps you.