I shudder to demand of the unwrinkling angels (bright winged over damnation-burned orchards), chant me another century of perfect sonatas! Songs that will insist against the darkness like an idiot’s bombs, gunsmoke and blurred colors. We living fires will cluster in the forest as if nothing were left but what we believe, night mysteries that force our awareness. Planet-shaped wine smoke as clear as clarinets is the key to the flaming Orion in our hands and irises. Inspire me perfectly where my words touch melody, and let my words cease brittle hearts from falling dead into the sun.