This is the moment
of the cymbal's crescendo,
of hard stone—
nothing that could be carved.
Only sound is possible in the waves;
they could be carriers of music.
The shore must concede,
acquiesce as the waves ebb and flow.
"When I was seven, there was a beach we would go to. I'd wade waist-deep to feel a pull on the claves where a man once dipped into the river. A little grab from the ocean, and I felt like I swam for days before they dragged me in, sea foaming at the mouth."
A string vibrates to the heart;
it used to know just where we hid it. Maybe there’s still a way of knowing we’ve never illuminated.
The heart was thought, at one time,
to contain our mind.
Our brains should be on Valentine’s Day cards.
The shore must concede,
surrender
as the waves, as the waves, as the waves.
A new moon always hides,
and those are the silent nights.
Madness always occurs in the light. Madness occurs between opposites:
Hate will strike open a person in love,
like seeing everything but the shadows.
"There was a sculptor; she said she could see it all in the stone before she began. Said she wasn’t much of an artist—all she did was find the sculpture already in the stone. (I always thought she might uncover some ****** the stone had seen.) They must’ve had an argument on a curve because some chips flew up and struck her eyes. From then on, she played the violin, said it was the same thing. I don't see how, though."
The hardest stones give off sound
when struck for their secrets.
Light escapes too,
a bit at a time,
just to tell us to relent.
It wasn't Mozart that tormented Salieri—
it was the music in the moonlight.
Snow is the same;
it’s water without waves.
That’s why, at night,
a winter's field is lonely.
And sometimes a chisel won't do,
but to enlighten, Â
there's been a stone
split open by waves of sound.
The ocean proves relentless
as the waves shape the shore.
She never told anyone Â
where she put the last fallen note.
It might have been in a stone
that will never see the light.
