Still,

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

silence.