The fatted smoke of burnt offerings,
the sacrifices in memory,
chokes your heart, and you wonder if you
dowse it with the three raindrops on a coat sleeve,
the expressive spatter of mud on a boot's shank,
the bleating of an ewe. From such a place, speak.
The dance steps are broken, the dancers renew
but the sound of the empty hall echoes in the sighs of the wallflowers,
the rumble of the chairs, and two balloons left over,
the humid car on a rainy evening, and the gravel of the train tracks.
As dark breaks free from the horizon hills
and sweeps you into its heart, shuffles you away,
the night fires start, the signal men rouse themselves from their cabins,
and the priest mops the spilled blood from the sacrifice of the wedding party.
(My apologies. No, I don't think this is good. I just think it's an explanation of the last week or more.)