His music sounds lost,

as if he’s never seen a swan.

 

It sounds found again,

as if he has taken up a young

lady’s invitation

to bathe in her clawfoot tub.

 

His music sounds lost,

as if he has witnessed

a ritual drowning.

 

It sounds found again,

as if a bigger planet’s mass

is tugging at his tides.

© 2017, Glen Armstrong

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