Anacreon, old star-lord, sing through the wires,
your cracked cathedral voice in the alloyed night;
I taste ion wine, I burn with the choir
of engines that learned how to weep in flight.
Raise the fractured goblet of comet-rusted sky,
let the vacuum chant your forgotten refrain;
we orbit the echo, we live, we die,
sparks in the beard of a god who sang to rain.