The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

gone rebab

anguish forms striations, competitive, self-tensed,
words fall out, i resort to music, saying that word
without a sense of it

today is a better day or a best day, when i can do
something and look back at it, hear back at it,
saying, this is a distance and this is done

rebab speaks always and the desert seems somewhere
lost in the almost square saddle-body, fingers above
the single string, saying earlier speech than that

or talk as i embarrass myself with a poem, i can
hardly see, hardly play it, someday the sound will
disappear saying, these are the last words you will ever

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