I wouldn’t be flattered if I were you. There’s no one here,
and these nights—cataracts, which pillars of tallow

couldn’t melt or warm—show no relent, atomizing
into filaments that outline the bridge. So I turn to you, and call…

No answer. Not even the dispatch of an echo.
Lord, how poor you are. How indifferent

to bulletins transmitted daily from this place.