Death of a Nightingale

cat-tired, brittle-breathed

poised on the edge of his wit

the old man.

"Behold a pale horse" -

voice trapped inside a bottle

a djinn with no more wishes

his bare body steaming

in noon heat

his fingers found a cigarette

beside the lamp

and stumbling

broke it

old man

he scratched his balls

laid back across the bed

sores pushing his legs apart

each barking breath stirring

the pewees on the roof.

In measureless and soundless space

a constellation opens its vast eye

firefly systems igniting in

the periphery of vision

galaxies in cluster

the gossamer petticoat of the universe

lifting as

he moves his hand in air

The conductor fell in love

with his boy soprano,

his voice and his youth;

ached to possess that boy

who sang a note so long and tender

of such immaculate sweetness

that the universe would stop to listen

to one fixed star

even the pewees would stop to listen

the army ants would call a truce

his mother now

in her kitchen

a darkening world before the revolution

"Come in, gúirito", she whispers.