Don’t sing to me. Don’t sing.
Don’t teach me to dream.
Your song, rising from your lips
to press against my ear.
Your song, which with softness grips
me and draws a corresponding air,
a wordless antiphon. A reply
pressing in return, silent and sincere.
So we both draw together and rise,
music crossed with stillness – unseen
notes counterpointed with sighs.
And in the space that intervenes
between us, the friction wrought
by the distance over which we meet,
ascends a structure of sound and naught.
Archways of refrain, the marks and
gaps on a music sheet – pulled taut
between us. Strains held and spanned,
curving along at harmonic degrees.
A vaulted chamber of mirrored bands
that in their similarities inversely disagree.
The air braces invisible crossways suspired
by interminable possibilities of unsung ecstasy.
We converge in the architecture of a desire
unseen and so unshorn of its embodiment,
and for this it dies continually in a flameless fire.
A song unburning, emptiness elating sentiment,
a dream half-formed and hanging half-seen,
discomposing hallways leaned against fulfillment.
And when you cease to sing, and I to dream,
and the notes tremble away with the silence,
then we each are left shivering –
alone in the ruined cathedral where
song and dream once twined in air.
by Anne M. Carpenter