My heart has turned to wax;
It has melted within me.

The midday heat loves me too much—cire-perdue

A sprue hole hollow, a core of lost wax.

At the ninth hour there is no more separation;

Blast furnace heat melts, exposes and refines.

But burnished bronze—or gold—gathers chill.

Do not be far from me,
for trouble is near
and there is no one to help.

Abandoned by even myself, alone-ness is euphemism.

The earth splits, the curtain falls, exit stage left.

Lama Sabachthani?

Return my heart to me.