“Strike the Evening Chime at Noon”
Foyan saved those words nine hundred years ago,
for this day,
so I would remember:
footsteps in empty halls,
light that exists only in reflections,
night that swallows bodies,
voices with pointless points of reference
(like invitations to a dance gone yellow with age)
and a name no one remembers.
The seat of the soul is empty,
but no longer aches with hunger.
Noon and evening
released from care.