Space like a church yet rounder, to enclose it casts a certain fractal grace
as if the staff of that music, red-shifted,
just into the range of our hearing,
or partly so. The syncopation is a simple one,
mensuration canon through which
snow falls, expanded or compressed, the stiff needles of the jack pines
and the sky
in its constituent chemistries arriving
through the cold of that long night.
If one accepts this body
as a globe rather than a point in a grander
(aspiring to lift off from this earth
or inscribing a larger motion)
—that is, more axial and pierced
along the spine of its intent,
possibilities for completion seem less
Mastery of the instrument, yes; two hands may seem four.
Meanwhile the canon
evolves another signature, another vivid
through which a scale may be shot
—D major, say—
as silk or as the words
we use to greet each other astride the yard-ice,
spare in their quick warmth.
That a day could be the tense of its unmaking is a second-hand wonder.
The phrase of it breaking before us, almost a language
overheard, syllable caught
between tooth and lip at the moment of waking:
the light fetching down from a place that may no longer be there.