This body, though fragile, fits.
The intervals slip easily out of the throat:
Minor third, flat seventh, flat fifth.
Everything now is purpose and light,
Evening air transparent as a glass of everclear.
Sorrow in the music, yes, but hollow bones float
His blueness, a flash in infinity, sheer atmosphere—
Maybe holy, he thinks, but don’t quote him on it:
Once back down in nature, he will never
Give it up again for nothing better than heartsick spirit."