the rain in F, sings Eurydice’s last sigh,
echoing back to the cavern of blackest night;
and the gaps of silence – like missing vowels of a cry.
the wind carries a distant funeral:
somewhere from the north, beyond China’s famed wall,
the scent of crying mothers
stirs the dogs to copulation.
somewhere from the north, beyond China’s sad wall,
the frigid lakes vomit insubstantial
syllables – the names of gods long dead.
they call it the blood moon of October,
and the eyes long blind fix their eternal gaze
at the chaste, silver mirror of a
hear me now, Grief,
rise from the womb of Woman
and give words to the departing sun,
consort of the angel Medusa;
I cast my robe in supplication,
pour ash on my head
and intone the sacred rain in F.