We go to our graves with secondary affections,Second-hand satisfaction, half-souled,
star charts demagnetized.
We go in our best suits. The birds are flying. Clouds pass.
Sure we’re cold and untouchable,
but we harbor no ill will.
No tooth tuned to resentment’s fork,
we’re out of here, and sweet meat.
Calligraphers of the disembodied, God’s word-wards,
What letters will we illuminate?
"Black Zodiac," Charles Wright
[Chicago Avenue east of Winchester Street]
