Heroica

The elegant line of its restraint hangs in the air,
Like touching red velvet, or some other unamed,
Unexpected impossible attained—the loss for words.

It’s good to still see the irridescence on peacock
Feathers, or diamonds dropping from the leaves
When there’s sun after rain—still a luxury to be.

Reaching through the second movement, chasing
The notes in my head, I don’t want to know the design,
Neither the heart nor hand of the maker—I absent

Him from the sound, absent myself, absent you.