What can words--humble, narrow consonants

and vowels--say to sounds so sweet they break

the supple skin and hardened shell of bone

and reach in to snip trembling strings and take

a beating, blood-glut heart with all the tact

and courtesy and grace of pickpockets?

Literature is poor indeed next to this,

the taste of life in sound--verbs, mere rackets

of champing teeth on metal next to God

fed through slim strands of harmony. Who cares

for fire and brimstone clumsily wedged

into nouns, when music burns up prayers?

Then I will not write either verse or prose,

but music--music, with my words for notes.