The voice of an owl perforates night air.

I hear it, feel it while Miles Davis plays
indoors, and I think of two sounds,
two dimensions – out there, in here.

I am between
what I remember
what I had forgotten.

Death hovers in night air: sulking
alive, breathing, penetrating –

the artist is always cringing under
the weight of death – a song
that everyone knows, tunes
we keep hoping to forget.

There is music we often fail to discern.
There must be, there must be.

recently published in whaleroadreview.com