Sublime, as the cliché would have that aria,

at breakfast in a Brisbane cafe. Which? João can’t remember

the opera, though he does, well, the Singaporean

poet Cyril, the singer. Years later João would read, when young,

he had been an escort as well as an excellent student of voice,

confiding in the interview how he used to give sympathy

fucks to men whose lives seemed so desultory

the carnal was their only kindness. Recalling Cyril, not as castrato,

as genuine angel, João is reflecting that Sunyata, or Infinity,

is such a being, who in the midst of breakfasting poets

brings “La Traviata” and Brisvegas into a synergy

that can only be listened to unspeaking, marvelled

at. That moment was real, João feels, and worldly.

He had thought, I hope they’ve noticed, too. Not just me.