Of light filtered through the open windows,
Percussive rain and birds arranging themselves
In the wide branches of the old pin oak.
The sight was this disoriented library
Of music moving across the open threshold
Of the mind, disorganizing new grammars
In the leaves of an unreal old book.
The very nature of her was confusing
Despite illumined experience, despite belief,
Sure testimony and deliberate science.
But the sound didn't move without reason,
Nor the sight disclose what is unknown
Without inspiring more of this nonsense.
No comments:
Post a Comment