If only libraries and museums roamed the countrysides and concert halls could fold like tents  

Here in my high house
I need only leave a window open
for it to happen now and again –
for the leaves of certain trees
to give voice to the breeze
as a reed awakens a clarinet
holding me captive to the moment –
absorbed, swallowed whole –
as they sing of nothing to remember
as well as nothing to forget

and when this music ends
my arms seem to cradle pity
that others have not heard –
cannot hear – for all the din
and barrenness of city

.
.

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