that night, i wish i’d been there to see it. a draught,
talcum-heavy & him vibrating those metal strings,
i’d seize the thick heat of the musical Him. i’d
marvel at the voice that would not have recognised
itself twenty years earlier—at the homebody gone
carnal piñata—among the Greek chorus of shrieking
pubescence. & of all the things to see, after everything:
the metronome, typewriter, the new-fangled colour TV,
the christmas specials, & cash grabs disguised as movies,
after the worldwide wet dreams—i’d have wanted to see
the little death that night. i would have little died & died if
i’d had a chance to see it, to see