A supple line and steady chords,
A light, stately pace, a pulse.
The air itself vibrates with the
Bows on strings and the buzzing reed.
Oboe and counterpoint—one wants
So much more than that. Time itself
Simplified; measures and chords,
With nothing more than these pure notes.

Suppose that this old melody
Floated free of its author’s flaws,
Erased his bile, spite and fear,
Cleansed the players’ bitterness,
And turned our time into a tune.
Still, one would want more and need more
Than this oboe’s sinuous line.

There would remain the restless mind
So that one would want to return
To the music from bitter thoughts
From regrets and shames. That turn,
For us—with our minds so noisy—
Our delight lies only there.


(A direct response to Wallace Stevens’ “The Poems of our Climate,” using music and time instead of art and space. See also: Wallace Stevens, The Snow Man; Wallace Stevens’ idea of order; the fetter; and one supple line.)