Say goodbye, rudder—curtain, seamstress, stitch.
I’m here for this shit ceremony, to pull you from the hem.
Say goodbye, microphone. Try, but do not speak.
Robbed of voice, say nothing; fail to end this hush.
Since Luck refuses to let you lend me your hand or
feel my grasp: Say goodbye, brother, taken
not given. Now (at least now) these objects of our history 
will pass through us, through history. Say goodbye—
this elegy—take it, drunk on my salt. Little mirror
here’s to you: a drink. The passage. Goodbye.