Symphony


Išve heard it, invisible, dressed in sparkly etudes,
as it climbed the stair of rhythm,
breathing my breath through a ravenšs throat.
Išve heard every arduous note, each one
cogent and alone. Išve heard it play
in alleyways and lonely bright windows,
like those old radios, and never once,
though strings break and trumpets choke,
a caesura. Unsettling the sediment
of gutters on abandoned streets,
the terrible beat of an angry child,
violent on a hundred different instruments,
pulls me to pulse with its drum,
but though I come to the verge of the pit
my voice cannot join it, for my mouth
is mutinous, open only for your kiss.


Donald Zirilli
1998