Listen, you are not
you, but swaying,
moving lips of praise
and trumpet. Once
the incense curls
where is the smoke? Where
is the trumpet’s note
in the kingdom of this world?
You’ve lost yourself
in a triplet bracket.
Even the king stands,
un-persons his mantle
while the symphony swells,
you remember the tenor
line holds resurrection
in a dissonance
that unstitches you
and you throw your arms up,
to a release of breath
Some things you must learn
how to see: how to scan the horizon
for black skins that sparkle as jewels,
facets slick in seawater and sunlight.
You have always been jumping
from this world into the orchestra
underneath. After learning to see
you cannot stop singing, you sweep
the blue rhumb line for plumes of dust-like
spray. Leap into mist. The swells froth
and erode stone. What keeps its shape
perched on the altar of time’s temple?
Today a sheerwater nests
in the mountain’s pores, tomorrow
the calcium shell of your skeleton
leeches back into the coral.
A puff of spume and your body breaches
at the point of jumping off. Look up.
Look. The rock is ground into sand.
What around you is not music?