In the invisible tundra of dry-heat rooms
Skin sloughs off in sheets,
Dull bulb of the sun a wizened thing

Like the dog gone off his food.
Meat left out on the counter;
His metronomic touch; music like a wild,

Blacked-out hostage of the dead.
Still the body carries on
With its diastolic grunt work
Even as the winter sky grows huge

And pocked with stars.
Each night, the stranger
Woos them in dreams and each night

Leaves no trace,
Just the deaf-mute child’s insistent
Recollections of his voice.