If convening for each age
and never laying down to die,
if merely slipping into new clothes
and never changing what they cloak,
this famous convention would have stormed
the Take No Heroes Hotel, 

would be resting in its suites by now. No,
there are nights
when the fullest moon will not offer
even the dimmest halo,
when the double-jointed,
alone crowd the light. 

And with the sky so near,
your ear pressed to the wall,
you will hear the din—
a convention of devilish nymphs scratch high
in the mountains. Never-extinct, they
crunch other suns between their teeth.