When I Sing Whitman
When I sing Whitman,
Dickinson,
Goodman,
Rorem, Argento, and Persichetti,
People laugh and gasp and sigh
and snore, sometimes,
in that pianissimo spinning of a colorless thread
gossamer and twilight
People cough and hiccough and fart
Their mobiles ring and pagers buzz
And on I soldier
like a meditating monk
examining, releasing straying thoughts
I paint the words with pitch and timbre
Eliding phrases, sensation, sense
Buzzing and creaking and stretching the moments
Dancing desire and lust and laughter
And people weep.