It must still be him, placing a piano
on the blue glass roof of the sea,
making you quiver like a wren,
like sleepless stars in a starry stable.
The maestro is gone, the wilderness remains,
a knight-errant galloping toward sunset—
the smaller his silhouette grows, the clearer,
undulating as if he is on the sea.
that triumphant whistle, swelling with pride,
fades farther away, yet never fully dissolves.
The good, the wicked, the petty—
all lit equally by sunlight.
After calamity, light scrubs ash from faces,
till every cheek gleams clean as leaves.
All that has been, all that is,
shall forever remain.
