I ask you what it means to be a sufferer in this life, O Lord, but you keep silent in your golden storm. The Leonora Overture plays on my radio. A few leaves hang on in the garden.
My life is being blown toward a far shore and I’m laughing, O Lord. It doesn’t help. I’m fully conscious.
Its a trick of the poets to say the lamp is lonely in its corner.
Its a joke of the gods to give us so little talent.
Its words like heart, soul, and fate that say we’re still evolving.
I turn up the radio, anticipating the off stage trumpet.
Planet of the Blind 