Blades surrounding
my naval dell,

I think my wound
whistles. Windswept

grasses call,
songs broken

by the gulls; still,
do you think

I could write you?
Where are you

in the deepness
you said would never

steal you away?
Moribund, these nights

without your beats.
I cannot hear

the muses in the
twilit halls,

only empty chalices
rolling on

the stones. So is it
the Faustian

hour yet? I long
for the demon come

make me the offer
I can’t refuse.