• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 09
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Fire Music

Listening to Handel,
I hear nothing of liquid:
no sea lines up against my ear,

no river washes through this hour.
only catching echoes
of helicopters and police sirens;

shores full of air raids
landing with the tide, a houseguest
uninvited, whose calling card

explodes through your letterbox
then expects you to make room
at the table for their elbows, aflame.