With a line from Wole Soyinka's"Muhammad Ali at the Ringside, 1985"soon the house levelsdown in music but wetarry. the enchantment isover, but the spell remains.have your fill, earth, ofthe pillars that neverbolt free as it burns down. allthe ghosts & shadows have moredepth as you finger the runeof the nail print ona god's crucified palm& a touch isn't enoughto extend all the edgesof knowing, but a touchis all we have. the lintelhas nothing to do with theruin. ilé ọba ťójó . . .the palace rattlesor wilts in a fire . . .depending on the messagein the smoke, the forerunnerof light or carnage,of us, circling as toldby no voice, but it was clearenough: hunger's clean platterscratched but unscathed,spun by our gut worms. . . ẹwà ľóbùsi. may ruinalchemize into glorywe circle like thosemen who mounted the bricksfor Babel, Tell es-Sultan,Pompeii, Twin Towers, everywall. we don't circle likethe vultures & bats. but realland animals who still feelthe tremor in ourbuckled hooves, our shins &Achilles tendon with theirlyre. the strings do no damagesave the brass & wood. a bugle'salarm. the revoltof trumpets scaling walls.the dust floats like particlesof a new light &this is the second be-ginning. once, we played alonebut the spell wasn't enough.come, let us play, comelord, come, wreck