After a long break, back | into the music | After chains hanging from the sky | Among children, a childish desolation | The milk is spilt, why must you cry so? | The music tenders | an orderly conduct of beauty | sweet work, the offer of a way | out of your self and into your spirit | when it bears you | you must take it | in this, I suppose, it is cruel | giving you no option but to go | to stand, to walk, to go | calm and adult where the children laugh and weep | no longer your children

Concert of working parts, fine as a young grasshopper | we are not summer, but the summer in us | and the primal migration, the first commands | to stand, to walk, to go | we feel them most surely | in the music | which, so gently, insists away all illusion | of staying here, of being together, or of being alone | The children are happy, the children are crying, some are screaming | their mothers and fathers | are lying down, left behind, of no help, now, and the music | drawing on the musicians | knowing more than our grief, and needing more | plays on

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)