It is a call, a calling.
Lost voices committing mutiny
to service seasons unknown—
Strange wingless angels
of mercy and memory,
the blue ones,
sounding the call, a calling.
Melody hosts its own discipline,
and we, the fragile disciples of music
and night blooming,
engrave this on the settlements of our bones.
Our bones, our bones seized and trembling,
as if gospel raised from zombies
among the centuries of metaphors roundly sown.