Song Cycle (2001)

There was once
a poetry sustained
between two wills,
the one in love
with the given life,
the other in lust
for another.

A music rose from
those stretching plates,
taut, viral,
pure as all waylaid,
imagined things can be.

But then came
the break with
its grim hooves.
An unharbored music
poured forth
from the wound,
bitter and droll.
A drone.

Next the nocturnes,
a descant metal
falling blue to black,
a drowned woman
bumping against
a reef of pews.

What sings now?
Open the doors and
let it go. Outside the
blossoms are pealing
bells of sweet fire.

The next poetry
is uncertain
of anything else
but plays on,
harping toward
the light of what will be.