The snorkel is the easiest woodwind.
Two notes in the chalumeau: rising and falling.
Here is the skin of sleep, the skin of reading, surfaces inseparable from depths.
How far does the light go down?
Wouldn't we like to know.
I love this exact and calm suspense, the way the spirit is said to hover above a deathbed, curious and tender as it is detached, a cloud on the water, a cloud in the sky, as if desire were already memory.
Just as a diction predicts what you might say next, an emotion loves its chums.
But here, in poise and in hard thought,
I look down to find myself happy.
