Drunk and weeping. Its another night
at the live-in opera， and I figure
its going to turn out badly for me.
The dead next door accept their salutations，
their salted notes， the drawn-out wailing1.
Its we the living who must run for cover，
meaning me. Mortalitys the ABC of it，
and after that comes lechery2 and lying.
And， oh， how to piece together a life
from this scandal and confusion， as if
the gods were inhabiting us or cohabiting
with us， just for the musics sake