The Composer

All the others translate: the painter sketches 

A visible world to love or reject;

Rummaging into his licing, the poet fetches 

The images out that hurt and connect, 

From Life to Art by painstaking adaption, 

Relying on us to cover the rift;

Only your notes are pure contraption, 

Only your song is an absolute gift.

Pour out your presence, a delight cascading 

The falls of the knee and the weirs of the spine, 

Our climate of silence and doubt invading;

You alone, alone, imaginary song,

You are unable to say existence is wrong,

And pour out your forgiveness like a wine.