Revisionist Horn Concerto

        What more clouds are there to say
	how it all matters to us?  Buttons, strings, bits of fluff:
	it’s all there, the vocabulary of displaced images,
	so that if its message doesn’t add up to much, whose
	fault is it?  I can imagine casting the answer correctly
	but it doesn’t work, there’s no question implied
	in those gorgeous, plaited ravellings.  Only a little
	is known about them, and nothing about their hometowns,
	backgrounds, etc. Really nothing more than a masterful
	way of dealing with silence, of leaving it there, and then
	being off on some expedition.  So nothing
	works.  But there is nothing there that can harm us.
        Don’t be afraid to let it hurt you, dance it
	under morning’s wire, ponder anew the shuffle between the infinite
	time bomb of the Nile and today’s shoelaces.  Besides, these periods
	have a way of elapsing, and the so-called healing process.
	Does anybody care, anymore, where it went?  Or whose sleep
	it interrupted with a unique dissonance
	of its own devising?  They were always photographing
	the cash register, some men came in and said it should be this way.
	From now on you’re in the proverbial fix.  Yet what was promised
	was equal to what was subtracted, while periods of socializing
	in the yard made up for how the money was spent.  It wasn’t until
	years later that someone got around to noticing the bald,
	comic error that had been hidden there in the first place
	to equate it with life’s beginning.  By then it was in full sail,
	swinging on the gate of how much longer we
	have to lean out of the railroad car, swaying, singing.
	The foul mouth should be caked with mud and weeds by now.
	But we’re not going to let a little thing like that
	spoil this birthday surprise, are we? 
	In addition to which the pole
	still turns, in dreams, like the enormous wheel
	of a rickshaw, viewed from up close, now
	dipping into the mud and chaos, now rising like a sigh, a lark
	on the mend, to remind us that all is well, or should be,
	or will be shortly, given the interest in its shadow.