← v16n2, Fall 2017
Poetry · Volume 16, Number 2

The Art of Composition

The man across from me on the plane

is depositing notes one by one on or under the lines, tails pointing up,

or down. His earbuds are letting him know if the moves are right.

From the left margin, he seems to be dragging forth emblems

for certain instruments. No one is hearing

but him. He is a large man, sunglasses shoved to the top of his shaved head

as if he has been recently encouraged out of the dark—

a great whale, drawn by the secret ringing

of the depths.

There is so much I do not know.

There is the word spiritual, which seems like a greeting from a distance,

some reverberation where desire and conviction meet.

I am forever watching things make themselves up out of stuff

I can’t even hear.

And beauty, every time I lean close enough, there is the vertigo.

But now I see he is sending a horizontal line

across what he has made, sweeping measure by measure

over the evidence he has placed on his screen.

   The Art of Composition