When all becomes music
The math will explain why we are frustrated.
The stomach will sing
And sleep will harmonize with sleep.
She will smile legato, and he will bring
The pictures you wanted. Just. Like. That.
Language will seem funny. A street
Full of people will react at the same instant
To every little sound. One little sound
Will become your favorite.
Your favorite. Your favorite. Your favorite.
Turn yourself up so the rest might hear.
Is everything already
Music? Has the museum already visited
The museum? Am I already here?
Was I meant to love you at first, rashly,
And close up—then, forever at a distance,
Never knowing who you were?
The music gets attached to things:
Music. Lilac. A gaseous star.
We keep having these conversations.
That’s our music. The harmony of far.
When all becomes music, time
Will stop being our enemy. It will be
Nothing. Or what it is, languidly.