A bee defying gravity
is not a miracle.
the same for a lonely F sharp
short on staff.
Writing a single poem is impossible –
The discordant artist tightens
Someone grips the violin’s neck
In a crowd of nervous cellos
and bases. “Do you know where
she is?” They whisper as an audience shuffles in.
All of us are waiting for something beautiful.
Central Park spring a bee hums to himself
Noisily at his work, not concerned about God or any
ethereal meaning.
Over the microphone labored breaths pummel out
In static pulses; she’s made it for no reason because now
They’ve left.
“I’m not finished,” says a ruffled American composer
at the front of the world.
Now she’s found some purpose
without a sound – she finished this sentence.
The late night blooming is sadly beautiful.
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