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MUSIC
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1992-08-18
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65 lines
MUSIC
For people beginning with B
The locus of a squirrel is a tree:
the locus of a man, the track
his altering body draws within his land.
It is a multicurving envelope
of turning surfaces: the limbs burrow
like the twist in a marble.
Sharing a home, we penetrate
each other's space; we weave a cloak
which walks and dances, celebrating time.
Our minds call to each other like birds.
The n-dimensional coordinates of mind
define positions not in rooms
but in emotions: each mood perches
in a tree of meanings, sprung from an infant's
brash taxonomy. A public space
touches each person's tree at many points;
and as our bodies quarter public ground
we leap through private branches, making curves
like streaks of racing monkeys in the leaves
hurling their sunlight-maculated limbs.
Moving needs calculation: the limbs reposition
in a blizzard of points of balance and tension
driving through space with the nerves hissing.
The molecules in all the muscles grip,
inching, by microseconds, all the bones
from angle to angle, levering and pausing;
and so too every leaping mood is made
of nerve impulses pouring through the brain
like starlings smoking through the autumn dusk,
each nerve a vector in a race of cells.
The tree of forests turns,
to be inspected: every angle shows,
along the corridors between the stems,
another forest, touching all the rest
at every point. Here one can stand and watch
the skeletons of grammar, clambering cleverly
as lorises from cause to effect,
and neatly juggling verbs. Each word
bristles like a chestnut, caltrop in a space
of a billion neuronal dimensions.
Music, a dancing forest made of air,
declares your close internal world to friends--
the glowing branches of a human soul
growing and moving in a space of notes,
the walking limbs of tunes, all heaven in one mind.
Heraldic birds with king-sized laughing songs
strut and go looping in this flower-filled world.
Each music is a grammar built of moods,
each music grows up freely in one mind,
each bears a set of movements as a gift.
There is no music in that outer world
but friends whose bodies as they die
turn into sound.