From the piano, music. Does it matter that it is black?
Do the suits on the listeners backs and the Persian mats'
Flirtation with leather and laughter,
The shifting feet of lavender, matter?
Then is this matter -- infused with a music
Covering it like the air, like a still air
Manifesting tides deep under the order
Of things become light and abstract as paint
In the room’s hushed advance towards every note
That appears as the unity’s messenger to song --
Is this matter, for a moment, time? Or is the question
Only a reflection of elliptic light
Dancing on the rims of the bright
Fruit, wine and chattering glass?
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