(after Paradiso XXX)

“Now, I’d best
cease in this path
after her lust.”
Homes raze to poets' gaffed
torch tunes—steadfast
artist instincts
when we're lost.

Soon, we’ll think
what matters, ends:
In trumpeting
of shunt deaths or deafened
half-notes—penned low
expectations
when we go.

---

I saunter
shattered streets, rave
sotted wonder:
“When ought I die for love?”
drab storefronts flame
where once I’d give
alms to whom

now bleeds out—
no left wisdom
nor farewell chat
in his septic reply:
“Waste your own life,
putinha … die
your own death.”