by Harvey Shapiro

    Drunk and weeping. It‘s another night

    at the live-in opera， and I figure

    it‘s going to turn out badly for me.

    The dead next door accept their salutations，

    their salted notes， the drawn-out wailing.

    It‘s we the living who must run for cover，

    meaning me. Mortality‘s the ABC of it，

    and after that comes lechery and lying.

    And， oh， how to piece together a life

    from this scandal and confusion， as if

    the gods were inhabiting us or cohabiting

    with us， just for the music‘s sake