I can’t assign a quality

to the note passing through me. 

I am quiet on my place.

Washed by light

white

as any angry spittle frothed

against the moon.

You cool melon moon.

You round faced  girl

shouting in the dark.

Howling.

I can’t assign a quality to the note

passing through me.

To know it’s passing is enough,

to feel it without the need to explain.

is there

for me to stand against.

Quiet.

Storm.

The light.

Always the light.

Spittle against the howling

Mellon-faced girl shouting

down the dark.

I can’t…oh,

yes there was a note passing through me,

catgut cutting drop of

music spine.

I need to understand why I feel this

or I cannot stand the quiet.

The light,

always the light

punishes

my eyes.

The light, always the light.

colors the face of the melon girl

shouting down my rite.

This cat gut ethereal drop of

liquid:

music passing soundless

through me

I am a drop of sound

splattered on the tile

beneath my feet cold

against burning enamel.

I was there.

I saw the notes fly.

I saw the spittle splinters.

I saw the moon-faced girl

howling into the light.