Imagine the most beautiful girl in the world is walking in front of you.
She’s entering the ruins of western civilization,
The wind is swirling her skirt
Around her thighs.
You want to follow. But you know
She wants to be alone
With western civilization; she’s holding a map.
Little boy, one day your hand will hover above the spinning record
As you drop
The stylus on the Berg quartet.
You will retain this memory, return to it,
Because she’ll write it down.