Congregation
An old voice, an old song. Erratic arrow
darting through air, trembling as the notes
unwind, returning to soundless life,
to the not-yet-brought-from-the-throat.
More old voices, a barbershop quartet,
four Jimmy Stewarts singing of breath
and eternity, six Jimmy Stewarts, a dozen,
a symphony, sinewy, sympathetic. From those
who saw war when they were young,
music, rising shakily, sharply, hundreds
of brass and wood birdcalls, releasing
a hymn, more voices, your voice.
No comments
Post a Comment