Found Music

Rhythm is the seed, the littlebody we planted in fear of

the dark that rose to adornand outlive us. It crawled

into our beds, flinging offthe furs, then the linens, first

as desire but later as contour,displacement, the fineness

of small faces we sawour best selves in.

So the chords were laid,note on note, like so many

bricks mortared out and up,sometimes augmented, more

often diminished. Lives collideand they recede. The harmonies

elude us, but we grope for themanyway. We hum along, unsure,

as each next movementclimbs over, muddies up, half

destroys the last. So whatof melody, you ask, what voice

holds up and down these scales,over blue note, your leitmotif,

the hook that sticks, the dance—a wand?—what raised hand—