Like sound, like gentle clutter our days:
Music is not as it is so much the
Other of human spirit in the way
It never dies even after the ear has
Found sleep in the way it never closes;
Even in a harsh wind of years slowly
Under the thin veil of one’s deafness.
Music, all but forgotten, then one day
slices through a silence that was never near—yet
Breath, it too, is a murmur that naturally
Can have only one end, one day ceasing,
Or be, let’s say, what will be remembered
In the small times of life as the fingers are a
Row of slight quick things emerged from repose,
As no other sound like music is also in the
Flesh that makes it in the tips of the fingers
And the unseen movement of the heart.
Umbriate Press Poetry 