Monday, April 15, 2013



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.

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