Absolute joy, the violin teacher
instructs: like love, love in springtime
or whatever season in the garden, out
where everything unfiltered, unapologetic,
launches by nature into its own form
of exuberance— Even the rain
bashing the windows right now
at the very place the builders
did a terrible job, cutting corners,
skimping on material, forgetting to wrap
and seal and caulk— Even that, proof
of how neither tenderness nor any other
powerful feeling are selective: jubilee,
sadness, a moan in the next room that might mean
bereavement or ecstasy. Sounds that have no
other equivalent in language but themselves:
say them all, so no one is left out in the cold.

2 Replies to “Articulation”

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