Yellow seasons, red clouds,
drinkable dawns and wine—
we certainly indulged.
Then an orchestra,
sprawling, treacherous, and lavish
with wilding percussion,
rainy brass, nervous strings,
and chatty woodwinds.
A growing dissonance of voices
on top of the deep roar of traffic
and sirens, a scream for help,
the crash of cymbals, bossy and jagged,
tumbling down concrete stairwells,
cutting through all things fearful,
then quiet but for the breezes sighing
through the barb’ wire fences
and over the range grasses.
In the discomfort of chaos,
another glass of Syrah,
a Brahms symphony,
and a found book of Psalms.
From: Ponder: Dreams, Memories,
and the Imagination
Unpub. MS p. 47
