To the Warming Orchestra
Tune towards clairvoyance this once
beneath the stage. Tune the radio.
Satellites plummet silent
Tune out the audience coughs. Our one privacy.
Instruments, I’ve come to listen to you
absorb the shoulder’s heat. I appraise the moment
the bow lifts; your hollows continue to sing.
A violinist pulls hair from her mouth. Silent
at a distance. Each radio set to receive. My thoughts
my own only. Quicker than pronouncement.
Only their own.
I set out before the performance.
Each morning I hear the freeway score
shift keys. Headlights arrive like random notes
to the page and by daybreak the first movement
of rush hour whirrs away. A thousand tires cross
concrete though I hear a metaphor, a river
or seashell that amplifies the days one drawn breath.
By night even its murmur overwhelms the bayou
swells of rhythm unless you stand still and hum
perched on the culvert singing, “Moonlight on the Bayou.”
To youth insects are song.
To us they are waiting.