The chord is struck , the thick light dims,
the saddened couples slowly rise
to cloy again their satiate limbs
with oiled and stippled harmonies.
The broken shards of muted sound,
detritus of discarded notes ,
entomb our hearts in walls around
and drive the harsh breath from our throats.
Black flames along a flesh-pink wall,
the shadows of the dancers sway.
The blue grind of the trumpet chants the Fall ,
the growling trombone cries the Judgement Day.