Still singing in my cell
of succulents, staked by a man
who fled. Nothing personal.
How often I get that wrong…
I move on—

              some man
is always fleeing, and that
is never personal. The longer
I go the fewer notes I need. 
My torso a sort of hotel.
Martyrdom bores me.
My hook-ups a new flamenco—

              will I be saved?
The peninsula tilts its goblets.
I am alone.  
Wasn’t I always?
Swifts fleck the dry grass. 
By my absence you’ll know me.