The wind orchestrates

its theme of loneliness

and the rain

has too much glitter in it, yes.

 

They are like words, the wrong ones,

insisting I listen to sense.

But I too am obstinate.

 

I have white walls,

white curtained windows.

What need have I

of the night's jet-black,

outlandish ornament?

 

What I am after

is silence

in proportion

to desire,

 

the way music plumbs

its surfaces

as straight words do

the air between them.

 

I begin to learn

the simple thing

 

burning through

to an impulse at once lovely

and given to love

 

that will not be refused.