By: Jeffrey Levine
The phrases enveloped in his voice’s flesh
Were of the hardness of a writing near at hand.
He would note: the kernel. The stone
On which he constructs a temple of music.
A school of gongs.
How to hold the earth in place.
Which accords us the grace to be what we can.
And before the traveling a “never”
That took the visible half of the world
From them, and in exchange, gave them the invisible.
Always the garden, but a lazy garden. Feckless.
Kept, the promise gave them bizarre riches.
Everything—
We could have had, we had.
The air where we meet, the beauty of the air where the street,
The café is found: a slight illumination.
A Pacific vapor.
Together in the interior where the impossible
Doesn’t enter.
Copyright © Jeffrey Levine
