Cope, hope, or catharsis, one
may be forced to choose one
during the bouts
of restraint against release,
of reach before the sigh,
of desire, to control instinct.
Of all inevitability,
daring to call itself proudly by name
on this mercilessly constant tread
of experiencing, each it seems
with a collapsing and rising unique,
Planck’s momentous, memoried,
voice-blanking frames, slightly
shifting and forming (together
we conjecture) the same blurred image
of light, of looking,
of a thought, of a chance,
that maybe,
whether it is instrumentalist hands
or a playerless orchestra bestowing
sound, of granules grinding
over each other, with each
a glance, a lift of a hand,
in disguise of louder music,
that I cannot say is wrenching, that I
cannot say is strident, or sweet or
harmonic or agreeable—just heard somehow,
resonant,
seemingly against silence,
at the seeming heart—
that the note might be
the only one to hope for,
as cope with, as cathect oneself in.
The only one channel to that which,
if heard, will really be heard.
Not a down, then in, then up,
and out, uncertain.
Not a fading with time
or a never heard at all
except for mere murmurings
of chance. Though don’t shrug them.
Be exposed, undeniably, wholly, to them.
These, musicless, can become
still air, still flesh—mystery’s shut mouth.
Something of a mouthless bird.
