The Concert

 

Not that we love order
the skeleton but o –
o if outside this room it
carved up such fruits, such
pulp between the beats –


And then the stretch of road
we needed has been swallowed – still
we turn, twisting our seatbelts at
the neck, and point. The grey sky there
is not the chaos we need to make
that point and still the sun with
uncanny execution acts
its ancient orchestrations – “there are
conductorless ensembles,” says
the conductor, “that play so beautifully
and yet I miss that hand and
I wish–”
          and do we need to wish?
stamp speaking faces on a grid
all blank arpeggiation, bright
thoughtless precise
display?
              Then the sun
too would have to speak
clearly in a prologue to
the grass on cue you’ll die
over and over
or else the grass
did say the same
at the same time or
else a whistle-camera-pistol-
-memo flown to all: on cue you’ll live
over and over and as well
at your convenience die but that
is not my area

                                In the room the numbers
                                attend their coming colors.
                                The soft old man stands up.
                                He holds a bass clarinet.
                                He listens then he listens louder.