To M.K.*
June 9th, 2016I may can’t write. I may can’t.
I may can’t write a poem.
May I can’t, orderly,
Begin, blood, flesh, end.
And the tuba asked the question;†
Slug-watershed, slowest quake,
Shifting slots and shelters,
‘Subjects subjected’,
Selves falling into themselves,
Answering, not knowing,
“What was the question?”
No, the tuba never changes song.
The soil’s the same.
Trouble was “I”, as inattention,
Frequencies’ impatient frenzy.
This was before that.
Not, where is the melody?
They’ve always been,
Now stretched, even while cropped.-
But, what is after this?
Culminate, cultivate, close.
Commence, next.
Not, can I?
(That lies in order.)
I may cannot.
Well, I may still.
May 12, 2016
* First poem in the series of Funded Muses, for the funders of Maldives/Sri Lanka travel.
† An allusion to the musical work The Unanswered Question by Charles Ives (1874-1954).