The Instrument
I envy the precision
of the engineer,
the grounded exactitude
of a trade, to be able
to hold phenomenon within
the spell of an equation,
have the power to make
something from a sum.
I make things from shadows,
the pulled threads
of a mirage and echoes
bubbling up from the bottom
chambers of a void. I work
with the vagaries of whim,
waiting for something to appear
from who knows where,
letting a shape emerge
from beneath a ghostly
gauze of words or reveal
its nature by a residue
of absence left
in the wake of its going.
I am a gatherer of what
is carried on the wind,
the fragrance of flowers,
moans uttered
on lonely shorelines
by the voices of restless seas,
the cry of nightmares,
the crescendos of love,
becoming for a moment
an instrument in some
vast orchestra through which
a divine song is being played.
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