Add to those lines that paint
letters and words on white
a dash of breath and they
turn into mellifluous breeze
for all that is is at heart
made of divine melodies
that scale and gauge
our anchored resonance
by which we live—unless,
as we read and write, we get to
forget our long-established art
of notes sequined by the eyes
with Romantic aide-memoires
about other, finely arrayed suns—
love plonks from the lyre’s heart.
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