Outside the Opera House tonight, in Paris,
A man imagines things, makes wishes
Into voices that can sing.
How high the wind is now.
It could not be bitterer than this is.
I am being here, right now.
I lend to him my hair.
Far north of this country,
A castrato who lied about killing a swan—still able
To fly—was, himself ever after,
Unable to take flight or take to anything at all
That sings or glitters, intermittently.