A shout shouted, a gunshot shot—
each echo echoes the plea
for a new silence.
A car crashes, a flight turns to violence.
A belief is lost in the night,
the night itself, a state of fright,
an act of active imagination,
a kind of poet’s poem sung to music—
music that you used to play, my dear.
Isolde, say. From one chord to the next,
the discord of love, by a man-god who
changed into all the harmonies
your child-soul could take.
A baby crying all night,
a cry just to keep alive the twilight
as twilight echoes dawn—
as twilight echoes dawn.