The brick wall stretches into the sky,
the sky empty, save the constellations,
whose lives I love—yours most of all,
father of poets, whose lyre filled trees
and stones with awe, the lover torn to shreds
and thrown in to the river. Tonight,
you’re the swan, lost among pinholes of light,
your throat bitten by a black hole
that takes and takes and never fills.
From "To Orpheus" by Blas Falconer.*
Orpheus, Franz von Stuck, 1891
*Blas is a wonderful poet I've reviewed and interviewed over the years. He recently took part in an ekphrasis event in Memphis and had a few words to say about it in an article I did for Chapter 16.
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