Thinking night thoughts, lying supine,
hearing echos of the why’s and how’s,
one sings an oxymoronic opus
of deafening silence,
in itself a sharp fool, an etymological
contradiction in terms that
seems to fit the syntactic bill:
we sophomoric emotional wonders
make music between the notes,
a tinnitus nocturne punctuated
by pizzicato plucks of a string
of a staff, holding an ephemeral,
Venetian shadow song of memory.
Return to a rubato, diminuendo,
a solo, of one’s own composition:
whole and melodic.