The contour of her singing—in her clothes

The contour of her singing—in her clothes
she hides her self: her breasts and hips, her thighs
that carry legs. In my minds-eye I'm seeing
the lilting of her melodies, the air pressure

changing with her song. The inversions of thirds
and sixths, the seconds rise and sevenths fall
into the valley of her back. I'm listening
to her breathing as if it were the signal

of a sought redemption. She puts her calves in
stockings, moves her feet in sharp, dark heels
across the museum floor. Her shoulders outline

the language of some spirit, the simple music
of the spheres that governs things. I wonder
if her song can cleanse the world of sin.