The nervous whiny groaning fan has stopped.
Windows open now, balmy air pillows push in,
Schubert plays soft, trembles beside the birds.
So this must be the other side of
fruitless blood rush, desperation plucked,
something heavy lifted, cut, gently led away.
A tropical depression looms, not here yet —
the wet stench of groaning absinthe days
staved off, parked off the horizon.
The piano doles impressions, helped by breeze and milky sky,
but how can Schubert, birds and silky air
speak to my sickness, sweat, and wreckage?
They’ve come anyway, compassionate friends
like a pool dive smashing voracious heat
or a wine cork popping off the pressure.
They whisper, don’t suffocate, open yourself,
tell the silent dry streets what you need,
what you want to do. Take a breath.
Thus lessened by longing, weightless and slow,
I feel the melody recede, soften to tonic,
the rope between you and me gone slack.
My knotted fist blooms, and free your memory goes,
that was always distant anyway,
drifting, aloft, held in light.
(Schubert -Opus 90, D899, No. 3 in G Flat Major, Andante)