Passacaglia

I hear the ghost in Webern’s chest
I hear, “pin pin within –
heed the skin. And
So I do.

“It’s in his skin –
his skin scales of soiled green shoots
and flies
where the signs arise.”

Within his skin
I hear the ticking Ghost, “ Spring damp dew,
watch the flies come to you.”
So I do.

And when they arrive, flies find a sweet perfume.

Here lies Webern gone away
Shot in the chest
is all they say.