​

Not sex or even sleep, but the imperfect dark

of concerts—the breath held between

 

movements—what each body contributes

to the whole silence;

 

how notes pass with glances between musicians 

until, listening, we believe in mind reading

 

or something near it. Not touch or trembling,

but that brief stillness the audience bears

 

before applauding. Not the confession.

Not the declaration, but the sun-drenched quiet

 

that fills the car afterward; our continuing

without speech, letting dusk draw itself.

 

Not our skin, but the lakewater that swallows

and separates us; our surrender to memory

 

and resonance—humming the tune’s

ghost as a breeze dries our faces.