We traded a friend for some lambs, this
spring,
Their bleats unheard as we sat in a
hotel lobby,
Drowned out by the pianist's wrong
note.
There it hung, in the air, a soft
discord,
Struck as if to announce the sour note
which we all felt,
As blossoms went un-regarded.
I remember the joy of swans and curse.
And later words stick in my throat,
letters catch in my pen,
A barricade just behind the nib.
Now, when I write of you, it is behind
a veil,
Invested with all the clarity of clay,
Beneath which, I am told, there is
rest.
