THE 6th

Every impulse travels,
plucked. Oh, Mahler,
we're fucked.

The memory was solid,
fluid, singing,
individual--until
it was remembered.

Now only a wisp gradually coming to being through thicker
and sentimental representations. The hair on the gut.

How did we end up with Hillary?
How did he get an English horn?
An answer or two
just as faraway at Just as far away as
mornMourn.

Bells out of tune, thanks and the wind.
Once this idyll could be sung.