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.