When days I wish not to say
or write a word fall upon me
I sleep within and greet the touch
of music’s hand over my eyes.
If you are, as Alan Watts believes,
“the fabric of existence itself,” well
you must be a patch, then, wind-shredded
off the coattail end.
And that’s what the music is for.
Which to keep me, also attached, I’d play
myself if I could and so would you. But you are
off in the wind flailing, remember?
Would anybody hear?
Threads flapping even more
the goodbye to an old man’s coat. But listen.
I’ve heard in it a rhythmic sound. Like the beating
of wings, lifting. Listen to us. It’s like letting
a flag fly.