The dead songs drop from the singers red mouth
like a copper coin ringing slightly on Thursday's floor.
It rolls around once then lies flat among feet
this droning, soggy night
strung with lights and fog
beyond the bursting room.
O we ruinous angles
barbarians and outlaws
fire is in our minds
dangerous baboons in poison shirts
and hooves.
All the ghosts inside and outside us
listen intently.
A few heads bob.
Windows glass shines.
Memory rides the crazy sky.
A few chords blend
inside an old guitar.
The wood
the rain
the wind
the singer
and her yellow fingers
work hard.
Some nod
and a man and a woman
dance in the yard.
Overhead the spirits are singing
the ones who forged our fathers' minds
the imperious sun melts the world
into the moon's long ice.
And the rivers run hot with gold.