You sing an arpeggio, a seventh chord,
and it hangs there a long time.
Here is the beauty of the human face.
Almost any room is a cathedral.
No one around, not even guards
in the twelve centuries of rubble.
So many strands converge;
you sing pentatonic scales—
us dreamy again, as if there were a harp.
The charm of impossibilities. I’m imagining
a piano; someone’s arm across the keys
or random notes, with the pedal down!
That’s what the stars are like, held onto
above Black Mountain—the Montagne Noire.
And when you laugh, there it is,
the full strange chord of your laughter
unmistakable, a true thing,
its own force in the vaulted room,
long after you stop your song,
long after you close your eyes.