It’s a literal transcription of a foreign language
Look, here is an archaeological memory trapped between panes of glass
Edges made of delicate sheet metal like my lover’s body when we were very young
A high, bone to bow, glass pitch: let’s begin
Coming through the hallways, white light against tranquilizer
Different promises made on behalf of the zero
I don’t need any of them
Just ink and to remember a name
Sing for me
After the flood, in the hedgemaze
After the inebriation, in the west
After the party, half full champagne flutes full of mosquitos and glittering in the big lights
And we have always lived in the after, who will drink this?
After the garden went yellow in the sun
We lost our taste for opera
Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry including The Whisper Gallery and The Torture Report, he lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.