In deep repose, my body
in infinite space
in the quiet middle

of the galaxies
slowly around me -
my thoughts stray in time

between the rush hours, loose
between the sounds waving in
between the blowing net curtain

and fading away
Clearly I hear the voice
of a free string

in the rhythms of traffic
in flurries of gamelan and conga
in sound sequences and interludes

on an autumn afternoon
and in front of me in the hall
sits a handsome man

Reading slowly, with pauses
may have the sound of poetry
Also playing that way

on the piano is not by itself
a vault arch or dance
from Sparta or Knossos

Yet there is an urge
compelling artistic souls
to waste their lives

for their part, searching
the roots
of preferably all

that is vibrating on earth
at least those of mankind
to unfold them

in spaces of silence