Music at the Heart of Thinking 147

A poem


Slant into an impossible French Me those luminous

venetians their light propelled by the heat shimmering

from the red brick above the dry cleaners at that

very moment the afternoon toujour with cousins an

absolute translation of ancestry not + beyond which an

occasional “Darling” assembles itself on the wire aware

of a secret syntax buried in a knot of class + spoken

subjects not to mention les suie + the scant wipe as the

slat bends + you can see the smelter on the hill across

the river.