Legato


I think about Beethoven,
the Ninth especially,

how it deepens possibility,
dares to become more yet more,

how if the maestro heard it played with outer ears
it might have shriveled him to bone--

the divine rarely translates to the earthly undistorted--

and I find the slide
of my own imaginings,

how I grow too used to
your whisper,

insubstantial as
an echo of wind,

and wonder if we will
find perfect cadence,

or fade into elegy,
too grand for a tone-deaf world.