Untune the lyre, smash the mandolin.
Within each string, another tune rebounds
Bleach the wind. No color binds
our thousand skies, commands the earth again
apocalypse seduces myth. Cold peace,
Without sound or trace
careening like a broken wheel, like no
wheel ever turned before. Undoings spill
a hundred islands lost within themselves
—but oh, they are unsalvaged:
undiluted: their harmony dissolves
already in hell.