iii.
A tone traveling through space has no referent, and yet we infer, and yet it finds its way between our cells and shakes us.
Aren’t we all still quivering like tuning forks with the shock of being, the shock of being seen?
iv.
When I die, I want to be sung across the threshold. Don’t you? Doesn’t the universe, with its loosening warp and weft, still unspool its symphony?
Sing to me — please — and I will sing for you as all unravels, as time continues past the final beat of the stutter inside your chest.
Harmonize, at the edge of that horizon, with the black hole’s fathomless B-flat. |