—“mu” one hundred thirty-fourth part—
“Terremoto and I died on the same day,” Inso-
far-I sang. He downed a shot, pure insti-
gation, right away. I could feel the words in
his
mouth, mashed voice and vocable, he leaned,
held on to my shoulder for support . . . There’d
been a face not to be not believed in he sang
about,
took him out the day Terremoto died. Pouty
mouth a guitar’s filigree embroidered. Black
hair the night sky coveted, glance he called esto-
que. Eye-water welled as he went on . . . His more
than
anyone’s, mine more than most, arm on my
shoulder, he leaned on me for support. Gray dawn
he painted, gray parting, grim departure struck
strings
drove home. Terremoto and he died the same day
he repeated, the train he took took him away. Black
hair darkening the bed he got up from, the train he
took
took him away he repeated, he died on his way
to Seville . . . Insofar-I’s Udhrite aubade bent all
ears. He leaned on my shoulder for support, semi-
sang, semiwept, a young man bereft, wobbly legs,
legs
bent. I wanted to hear more and I wanted to hear
less, not sure which I wanted, what I wanted, what
want was, not sure I heard what I heard. Had we sat
at
a table I’d have slammed my glass down. Had
we sat I’d have stood up and said stop, I’d have
stood and said go, I’d have patted my hands toge-
ther, stomped on the floor . . . Had it been so thus
I’d
have done. Instead I stood with him on my shoul-
der. He and Terremoto died on the same day he
repeated, Terremoto’s a shot in the head, his a shot
in
the heart. Had it not been so he’d not have said
it he sang . . . A promontory of sorts it came to be
we stood on, rock were what surrounded us water
but
it wasn’t water, an advance onto air as though it were
rock. Y sus labios echoed everywhere, lost love
gone on about no matter he’d have been done with
it,
never to be done with it it seemed. I was Anun-
cio courting Nunca were I to listen but I would not
listen, at long last I the desireless one, no matter
he leaned on me for support . . . Was he myself beside
my-
self Sophia queried, a question I waved off, pouty
mouth long ago let go, black hair, sword eyes let go,
gotten over, long since gotten over, let go. But for
de-
siring desire desireless, I was Anuncio the Elder
if Anuncio at all, not to be gotten started, “Don’t
get me started,” I waved it off, Insofar-I’s rock not-
withstanding . . . “Terremoto and I died on the same
day,”
he went on, gray day, gray dawn, gray letting go
of her, Udhrite lament my lips long moved in sync
with, an attunement long since let go. It was a book
of
going on he got his words from, gone back to some
sad
room, dictat-
ed to
____________________
He and Terremoto died on the same day of the
month, Terremoto in the fall, him later that
year. Ythmic elision he saw but let slide, mystic
af-
fliction he felt rang true, three months between
Terremoto’s death and his . . . Slight of chest, thick
of hip and leg he remembered, late sky rid of
loin-
light notwithstanding, late space what impulse had
been. Lost body more his than hers but begun
to be both . . . “I was an orphan raised by orphans . . .”
Her
words lay on the pillow, nev-
er left
____________________
Let myself be leaned on though I did, linger
though I did, I heard enough hearing he died
when Terremoto died . . . So it was I plugged
my
ears with strum. Had I listened I’d have la-
mented my lost body. I leaned against his lean-
ing, lent my support . . . Propped up in my
own
right, I wondered what I leaned on. A shade
he might’ve been, soul serenade the song he
sang,
soul, it seemed, a fund
of unrest