still i struggle to write music

movement first, my hand conducts words as they swoop down around me

as cadences of possibility chording through time. only read the rhythm

walk a sentence to the end of the world so that it becomes the beat of your feet

pacing one two three four, soar like Puck’s garland in a midsummer caper

(note to self, without haste).  space    space     there resides the common touch

within our little planet of limitations this fact of being, in place, in places made to share

i place place, placing sounds around places of the mind, an examined life made better

for the digging. still I struggle with beauty a violin is bowing into ground not yet uncovered i

sense the tremor of having been,  following the line until night ends, ends in thoughts of

a heart’s pilgrimage to all that is well welling up sempre staccato on and on



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