Zephyr, Passing

February 15, 2011

Sure, she might want carillons and calliopes,
and she will make up patronymic sobriquets
at the drop of a hat,
and dream of flugelhorns and clarinets—
for she is a wind instrument herself, you know, breeze
personified, the open sky, the air, immense.

She might want opera singers/ warriors
too, for all their songs are silent and intense,
and hard to master. I guess it’s either/ or—
but not quite a disaster.
It’s either a voice that must avoid the song
altogether—a voice too much the choice

of one that can’t be sung every day, a voice
in that icy cascade of miniature mirrors—or
a song of light so wide and white, it’s like
a fit of fugues, a fig of laughter, a kite.
It’s like a passing zephyr, blue
against the blue, transitory light.


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