We get to keep a record of the voice
that lured death and love to waltz
together past midnight’s hollow to
decivilize the dawn.

I was there that cool June night
he brought the future to Minneapolis.
His weaves between backup singers
timed perfectly with his body and song.
I sit in the back of the theater
wishing I could be seen with the man

I love. Beg for it—to float
with those heroes in the seaweed.
A future perfect that will not
have been sustained.

It is murder. The news
is hushed for days
unlike every other scrap
that explodes, fragments,
clones itself into more
grotesque distortion

when Hank Williams finally replies:
“You know exactly
how lonely it gets, Leonard.” Sneaks
out just in time.