The Apotheosis of Psyche

Time opens the willow wand, perhaps. Perhaps
It does not. The sky is veiled with tattered silk,
Like Monk dreaming at the piano in halting silent
Beats, opening the bar in sheerer rhythms than
I can see. I was wondering, what is aware of me?
Then, as soon as I don't care, it becomes mine.
Finished in a way, always a fragment, me partial to it.