Sometimes, the drain
is the only way out.
Sometimes, the last days
offer our best chances—when everything living
swoons and dances
to that music, not which
is prettiest, but which is headed
for the most auspicious ruin.
Even Franz Schubert
might still compose himself better
as a butterfly someday; his newly
reanimated tune: two bright blue-
glowing wings, extending
to catch the comatose
afternoon light—come some balmy
June or July.