From the window this harp, an airy gilding
the alchemic day has crafted in syndicate with a
                                            lingering dust,
     flocking fleck of spin
               and spiral and tuck
          and reemergence—movement the thread
to twist and entwine to fine twine of light,
                          imploring play from capable hands;

now how to soften in osmotic aim, to oblige the silent song—hands
to know only epitaphs, to strum shadow like weaving dark into
light, to strum an obscurity forever clumsy and undevised, to
strum a noiseless nothing.
                                                      how you fret to hear your song
                                                              while the deaf smile on you.