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 wailing¹.

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

    meaning me. Mortality‘s the ABC of it，

    and after that comes lechery² 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