Ordination, hands make up day-
slow chords walking lines through
muse's stagnant level, warbling grays.
Grace retains listening fingers, pressing
eyes soft-piercing, leading hands through
further measures: Muscles making time
sound halt, halt-swell, smooth
that bit of mouth, not led as horses know,
though led: organic fingering rhymes practically
once, slant twice, turning abdominal walls scripture texts;
back-chording sails, as water walks composure's tack to make
this Music Well peace; written, and reading as rest,
to bring about mooring. Clouds were sun upon
their backs when darkness roared,
impatient gales. Now sun-born May walks in musical
flesh transposing tissues, glands,
Toxins' flown lengths of lightning-blown
peace, save a littered line of membranes
coughing this: The simple thing I want to say—
signing. April. out. through may, is "Stay",
"Sit", "Play"—like dogs mend a moment's rush,
small fleas. Small flees. I play from
books with notes of lines, like textual hospice
carrying visible sound-clasps
clopping the damper pedal, squeaking
Vibration's higher octave making sense of space
expanding, like rain.
This attempt at writing is the reason why I have stopped writing much. The poet has left my mind and has not said where or when (if ever) she will return. Subtlety is lost. I am sorry.