Lost Elegy for Hank Quinlan
Sam Rasnake
What does it matter what you say when truth
is not an option, when your future’s all
used up in shadows over empty walls,
in whispers you should never hear but can’t
stop listening, a ticking in your head
as if dreams were ever enough, as if
one word or even two could be the sum
of tarot cards in smoky rooms, music
from the pianola so old it’s new,
the lost beauty with its bent for grieving,
a place to hide, an almost life—the touch
for grace and obsession, for sorry luck,
all measured for a fall—clean and silent—
the hard nights drifting on dirty water
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