Ocrhcestra!

Oh,

Kitharode, Luthier, Psallien-

The involuted air, in which

The pink of autumn has

Fallen in. Each instrument's

Voice cressing through it

A new catastrophe

Of rest, duress, and movement

It was that which the air became

At that moment, and every moment

After. The audience had endured the

Show--

Cortage,

suspense, and the tremendous

Dimeundo of an audience's

dispassionate applause

Solipsist! Solipsist! Yourself the

Locus Solus of what 'solace' is

Cronos, Cronos, faltered wit

That fathered it must have been

Yourself -- and now that time

Has had its time and space

To spin, you do not have to

Be any Shakespeare, any Bard

To catch the drift of it-

Everyman's virility and vinity

Falls to you- specious deity