The window has the sun. The sound of no one.
Crows gather in a raucous tree. What is between
This silence and the way I feel?
An opening of vacancy – too full.
A river passes through inaudibly.
The heart's too large for knowledge anyway.
The sounds we hear are the quieting
Of our anguish, never what’s far away
Inside us, inescapably. The blue codes
That do not echo shadow the black-leafed night.
The scales descend like high water flows down
So many intricate prisms, each one
One of our own, to sing from, as if we
Live there, and can become every other,
Whatever the key signature calls for,
A modulation away from the place
It must end as it had begun. A clear ploy:
Collapsing radiance born as dissolved
Away, heard for the first when dying,
When spirit reaches the toes that touch the sky.
