–In the rapt evening that will never be night
you listen without end to Theocritus’ nightingale.
–Jorge Luis Borges
The bird of the dead is never clear, buzzing like early telephone wires. It sings for all the villages on earth. One clear throated call would solve the mystery of incarnation and metempsychosis–meantime you listen to all the garbled songs, that punishment saved for poets. & the sad bird offers only explanations of yourself. Ideas without music. Frail wisdom. I think it is your right hand I love: drumming quietly, as if you were counting syllables at an oration. All the dark blue, top heavy notes…
Planet of the Blind 