And there, upon a song.

When upon the wilderness' stake you encounter a feast

You must eat.

And there, upon a song,

You will discover amid your senses and

Turbines

The need to dance.

But this is not a simple observation. And you were augured

In your own breed of impulse and recognition.

And this land is not the same as it was a moment ago.

Two aspects.

What we've come to know as surplus

Is only the surplus of wisdom--

So little a focus,

So wild an aspect

--alongside another aspect.

The green preparations.

Once the bearing of rain came from a window

And all the world was hungry.

Folks were disturbed that it didn't get more attention--

There was a halt cleft in the program--hard shoulders relaxed, soft.

No courageous acts. Nothing was allowed.

The game stopped.

It was as if the green preparations of sound came to beg at the door

Of a wanton color. Finally--and this is important--

We let ourselves say so,

We didn't know where to look, or how to behave.

Don't let me down.

You know when the wind blew and they lugged their gear

Onto the roof.

They played 'Don't Let Me Down' and the wind blew, even though they knew it was over.

They were told to stop

While businessmen and some alert fans gathered below in the wind.

The work of time will come, and the wind will carry it in and carry it away.

Some were across the rooftops, their speech halted

And their hands nearly idle but for the anticipatory joy that they were catching something as it fell

--the wind, and it was over.

The spire sigh.

History doesn't sigh. It doesn't tally any of the devastated towers;

It relents to the lasting ones, the obstinate obelisks open

To the batterings of hours.

When nobody's awed 'oh' rises, and none await the designer's hand

Love will stop apologizing, and fall back upon the land.

Love haiku.

Small promises are lethal--

The heart floods with them.

Each dizzy yes is a song.

A girl.

Music is homeless, it once belonged to heaven.

And it was crucial enough to the winged inhabitants that

--at first, it was allotted a single golden room

Where they could go and lie down.

Then the founders expanded their brilliant notion and a

Palace rose in the cloud, as you'd expect a volcanic island:

Peering on the senses from the sea,

And the riches of the room swelled with

The sleepy dusk.

Composers, though, they loved that.

Never ones for sun tans or girls

They merely embraced the underlighted origin

The ground zero, like it was a bronze idol,

Or a memory.