Peter Gizzi
Fear Of Music
She put the sugar on my tongue, right there
in the trees, and I see the sun standing
behind buildings in static reverie.
A postcard, its steep cliffs and steeples.
It is a town- a quiet sky- calm the light
flooding in to display hands and faces.
See them on their way to the mill, the bakery.
Get in line. Nothing will come between us.
The perpetual wheel turns inside,
spins inside a head, and waves vibrate into rings
first seen- then unseen. A sound-
through which we move. A distant voice
calls, so may we live and petition goodness,
sweetness. The tribute of friendship worn as a necklace
or fashioned into a headdress. Wild in the cities,
walking down avenues wilder than the place we live,
that is a face, a view. That many-voices blend
into a sequence, turn them round your head,
thread them through your head, making it up
as we go, is where we live. Where I want to be.
Yesterday proved a shower of letters, a postcard
by a strict governess sent from a distance.
Mother I will invent the good townspeople inside my head.
Dizzy building! and when we look upon you
we will know we are home, when the voices fail us-
burning down the house, fight fire with fire
from spooky start to finish- a lone sound
that will not be tamed. Where power is unlike a factory,
truth unlike obedience, spirit like a hammer
and anvil. Just like a hammer. The limits
of the dead and the living city. The streets, sewers,
parks, and tenements. The face held in two hands
gazes into the middle distance, touch earth
when you touch your head. Beneath the young night
fleecy clouds and silver moons waver
in the dirty reflecting pool. See your fairest shadow
floating there, and calling say, depart- not yet.
The name of the pond is echo, echo is the name
of the pool where nothing happens. The image pales.
Why look there? Beyond the dream is told.
You ought to be more careful. Setting a bad example.
Who can tell what they seek? If not for you
this bright dome would empty,
the yellow bands of light recede and everything
of bland consequence prevail, if not for you.
Off in the distance singing from a tree.
Copyright © 1996 Peter Gizzi
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