Tingling inside the entry hall, left of the foyer stairs
where guests have glanced in worry, hot, up at her shrine.
She's not here and this is a strange, after-hours tour
any room to be cooked by flashlight, meat smells in the air.
What was that song heard coming, coming in, about gone love?
Booties forensic with quietude and task
padding up to the second floor, toes outstretching like beast noses
toward one room and crack of the next for discriminate sniff
so when it comes to choice, one follows the wits, the point of it all
as if it were a jungle night, one can't be heard,
to her mumbled voice on tape by a bedside jug
garbling her text, her very own whisper that it's all okay, he's here
the country, it's in good hands, watch: the last act's simple comedy --
and the world goes wet, spit pearls like the ones at her neck
making it a new day in the dark, turning it upside down.