Like the sun out of clouds, warts and all,
The belligerence of the composer
Coming in on a wave of golden love,
Nature denatured, like a bleached sand dollar
To harmonious form, to the elements
Of violence and color, love in abstract,
Viscous, chaotic, a new dissonance
To call consonance, dug sand flung further back--
He's digging until the image appears,
Putting his life aside, his wife in tears,
For what comes, seemingly of its own accord,
What he only understands a little bit
But hopes we can get something out of it,
What exists for us as a self-portrait.
