At age seven his prodigy began to fall
like a windfall of galaxies, elegantly composed
of the particles of order in numinous sky-filling millions.
He had music and order to himself, and it was enough
to walk apart from the dark familiars
of memory eternally returning into itself,
and to see the self in the pale incoherences of speech,
and to stand alone, at last uncertain, and to remember
the question of returning to something he would say again,
if there were ever time again, and not the silence
of eternity. If there were still things left to say
there would be time again, and he would breathe again,
and move again, and time would flash again.
At age thirty-seven his prodigy began to fall
away from music and move to motionless sound.
There were now some things he could not do.
The notes fluttered and were past, and nothing he forgot
in a dream would return to him again, as if
a hallucinated cry from a faceless mouth of rain.
To hear me reciting this poem, click here.