“78. Who would hear me above the surf, the remains” in “Musing”
78.
Who would hear me above the surf, the remains
Of the day crumbling in a world read
Against the flight of emptiness? Love would call
A violin, old suffering on the cliffs
Tumbling into the sea. Odysseus didn’t come
This far west or even farther by the pillars.
The rustle of an inscription for the dead
Leaves us a shell of socket and space
Dusted and borne back into an earth
Not even noticing. We are part
Of an unfolding, an unconscious force
That bears a beauty beyond poetry.
How does this music make our lives
A love more than a barren, something?
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