Songland

Songland

When the song ends
it doesn’t just evaporate

like frost from the lawn.
The song snakes away

from us, into the realm
of Songland. Brink of

evening or morning,
always, miles of pines

and riverbeds and
crosswalks. Songs

nestle in the branches,
strewn like crepe paper

in all the song-spaces.
No people here, the songs

feel lonely, they wait
for you to call them back.

When we sing, we summon
them. When we want to hear

them, we summon them,
and when they slither from

our throats or into our heads,
they think they must be

dreaming to feel so much
clear euphoria and love.