Sing and you will be sung to. A song will ring for you.
The answering choir will disentangle your having sung.
My song has been wrong all along, so if you sing
your song, expect to be eventually contested.
The sensical tune in the wind is a panoply of ruins
sped from disparate voices of funneling river, bricks.
If the song is not a gentle lapping along of the river,
but the Nile, a turgid expletive of water, thick cursing,
then we are dead, drowned in the turmoil of voice,
random, noise abrading away any of our harmonies.
Can we issue a low last lilt, a remembrance of word,
then wail, a rose suddenly shivering in a floating basket?
.
