Our music will always exist while remnant
of us ever having played it mightn’t

No photograph in black and white coarse-grained
in the morning coffee and the light of new day
coming through the window

A voice, a life captured
in a vinyl groove, we dig it out
with diamond styli

Trapped in overtone
due to expire, reliving
the last time touched

Sere earth in rapture over the horizon
lines recited in subtle gesture atop
fallen and graceful wonders

The music’s more than bulbous slanted dots on stave
windblown rests and italicized Italian

We are intended
to be sung

© Chagall 2014