Drummers in the afternoon, like houses
Speak that strange ambition too, wresting cool
From wherever it hides and rouses
For whatever reason it chooses to
The rat-a-tat of unmoored ambition,
But still there's something, something that it knows
But cannot reach, from another musician,
Presented like the sky, wrapped in a glow,
As natural and divine as one's breathing,
Forever elusive, ever leaving,
The drum roll at the end of the tunnel,
It's enough, this light, for sacrificial
Rites, the small i self for the superficial
Delights of objects dancing to the null.
