No underworld to go down to, no brave cricket
to go down to it and bring their images back—

no way to make their wounds seal up,
no way to call them back into their bodies’

negating shells—no wings that will unfurl,
no words of what they know down

there about up here, no never-ending chirrup
singing about what happened as they lay

there on the dance floor or tried to hide like you.
Under the refrigerator, no matter broom

or bug spray, you keep
on singing as if this place rides between

your wings as you carry them away into
the silence you fly into.

in memoriam Le Bataclan

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