Whatever art is there, it disappears
In the mysteries of living, lessons
On the wind, the razor-thin timbre clears
And loses coherence, its finesse in
Limbo, aureoles akimbo, missing
The meaning it had but a moment ago,
Though, unlike life, it's remembered, trembling
Still seems to flow through the bloodstream. You follow
Like it was there, but it's not any more,
There is only a desire for closure,
The dumb notes circling the remembering brain
As the ghost limb melody fills up the hills,
Its trills billow through the late windowsills,
Take the town, in mid-pirouette down a drain.
