The Composer


The process sometimes begins
by imagining an impossible place
remote overlooking the ocean
in Malibu or Majorca or Milos.

The house is white concrete,
all square corners and panorama glass.

The sunlight falls into empty interiors
leaving rectangular shadows that lengthen
as the afternoon ticks by.

The wind sings through open windows,
the ocean below churns itself
into deepest blues
over and over,
a surfscape rumbling.

The lengthening light,
the zephyr melodies and water rhythms
slow your thoughts
into forgetting they had goals.

There is no need for music here,
but your game is making some
on a piano in the empty room,
turning reveries into something else.

No one will hear it anyway
so you sit down and begin to play.

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