Shape-note singers warm up
the gazebo: stretching
vocal chords:
la la la la la la la
Soul clap its hands and sing
an aged man is but a paltry
thing
Outside my office door one
tunes guitar & practices
tremolo: hammering
on & pulling off.
Monuments of un-ageing intellect
caught in that sensual music
all neglect
one on whom nothing is
lost but past, passing
or to come.
Pure “position.”
No “velocity”:
An offense to
the dutiful &
ridiculous to
savants.
Born to lose: it is not lost on me
that all is lost. Miser anyway:
holding on to what I got:
on whom nothing is
lost. All gain and
goes away
any way.
This is not whine whose
time has come to be
released. Mere
description.
Notes from gazebos rise like
butterflies in
tornadoes in
concupiscent curds
in
Can I be obedient always like
unceasing prayer listening—
on whom in losing everything,
nothing is lost? May I?
Does global warning wake me
in the middle of the night?
Sustainability?
Mountain slope ordinances,
plastic bags and trans-fats?
Sure: in the day time
when I’ve got my
suit on, properly
appalled.
Sunday School
all around and
gold stars for
appropriately
shared concerns.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium. (WBY)
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