Perhaps as a poet said, there really is a tale lit by the soft light of sleep. “Perhaps” grows around the house like birches. Perhaps there’s a meadow where the dead dogs frolic. I’ll never give up on perhaps. A fritillary lands on the unpainted porch, having returned just now to earth through a black sieve.
It rains in the apple trees
Where a crow settles
In a dome of blossoms—
I watch him
With my clear head
The way blind people do…
But the music. Nobility. Dignified growth of the man. No more hunched shoulders.
And Mahler, always an intruder, never welcomed, little Bohemian, as a boy, conducting the birch trees…