—“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
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
      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
      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
  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 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,
  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
      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
  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
    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
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
      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
    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
      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
      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
      going on he got his words from, gone back to some
    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
    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
  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 . . .”
  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
      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
  right, I wondered what I leaned on. A shade
      he might’ve been, soul serenade the song he
    soul, it seemed, a fund
  of unrest