and again this garden of song,
this palace of ground, bewitches me with her gaze.
I sit, befuddled in the ridicule of a sky, sadder and
more miniscule than she earlier hinted.
No matter. Sing little clouds, hum your movements
lightly, and don’t commit to more than
you’re ready to say. This lyric only pretends
to be finished. You’ll have so much more
to sing when the squatting creatures,
alive and aloof and stretching,
rejoin your blustery repast. Maybe now
break down for us your new composition,
fugal and off-center, like figures of speech,
hunting after understanding. Like inside jokes
seeking audience with the uninitiated. If sing
you will, then sing you must. Pitch out your best pitches
still dripping with notes muted, buried and forgotten
but now tied to a syncopation, meant for dancing.
Direct us, oh choir of mismatched muses and bring
a good crescendo to boil where once there was only