To the sea, to the sea

eurydice, eurydice. . .

all along the purling waters

of the Hebrus

birds, flies, fish

each summons itself

to the music that still

trickles from the minstrel's lips

the bob-bob-bobbing head,

maenad-cast

into the river like

a hive of meat, each

buzzing syllable of descant

and desperation

now a meal in itself, honeyed

death drawing

still more to a final concert. So

what if the drawn

are less music lovers than

faunal minions

of the dark lord, who subsist

on what

the world no longer wants

or can contain,

imbibing, gnashing, tearing free

little morsels of song,

blood notes, carrion riffs,

then hearing within

the digested flesh a lyric

compelling subtune

that forces itself out through

animal voice,

exploding in an accompanying

twitter of voices,

caws, gurgles, and sibilance

that repeats over and over

the minstrel's refrain:

to the sea, to the sea

eurydice, eurydice. . .