Nights

　　by Harvey Shapiro

　　 Drunk and weeping. It's another night

　　 at the live-in opera， and I figure

　　 it's going to turn out badly for me.

　　 The dead next door accept their salutations，

　　 their salted notes， the drawn-out wailing.

　　 It's we the living who must run for cover，

　　 meaning me. Mortality's the ABC of it，

　　 and after that comes lechery and lying.

　　 And， oh， how to piece together a life

　　 from this scandal and confusion， as if

　　 the gods were inhabiting us or cohabiting