-for Finley
Brother Orpheus,
It has been 60 days since you dove, to the Underworld.
What news do you bring—
What revelations?
Do your stories have more power now?
Did you rescue Daniele?
Today, the October sun hangs high–
Weeks before long the Minnesota winter,
Shards of orange and crimson.
I imagine the maple leaves on the lawn are fragments of you,
Smiling.
Brother Orpheus, you willed me your lyre.
I am not sure what to do with it.
It should be taken to heaven by muses,
Cast among the stars.
No, it sits on my dining room table, mocking me.
Go forth, Susan.
Do something with it.
You will play music.
They will throw rocks and branches.
They won’t harm you.
Today, the beggar priests come calling.
I turn them away.
I am clumsy.
There is nothing I can give them.
They look for you.
The angel lands
At the end,
You could not charm the death with your music.
It took you.
It will take me.
It will take us all.
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