Friday, October 6, 2017

SPECTRA

Sometimes, the notes all
the big guys
play are too high,

and I feel as though I
can never hope
to hear them;

but there are others—which
I'm also not professional
enough to hear, but

which sound so low
that only the littlest hairs on my
body must feel them.

So what—if
I'm not large,
I contain no multitudes?

If I don't dare
disturb the universe
because the future is determined?

If I don't feel all that
insignificant, either
at the train

station, or
beside the white chickens,
or wherever.

I don't care. I swear
I never thought—love
would last forever.

I'm stubbornly stuck
in the middle
of every endless spectrum.

When I die, I'm sure I
I won't fly
up, but—

if I'm
lucky—into
some other people.

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