In the end
he leaves the difficult lyre
behind and clambers down, handhold
by outcrop by ledge,
shedding talent, fame
fading like a tan. Angel,
artist. His head
humbled by its skull.
Apprentice. Among such
gravities to find himself again
ungainly. Thrawn. The country-and-
western singer whose sad similes
come home to roost. Like doves.
Like crows. Like
chickens. His theme park.
His menagerie. Once his song
made rocks move and the gods
relent.
Such was the boast.
Now the rocks
rub raw the bone. Gravel,
scree. Who will name
the dark’s own instrument? Riprap,
slag. Music
tearing itself apart.