"Music is feeling then, not sound."
It resides in our hands as we clasp it around,
Squeeze it out.
With our hands we receive the keys on the other end
Of the gentle glissando (for example).
There are missed notes
That nobody hears
But that play on without correction
In the teacherless rooms between our eardrums
Beating the sound, giving it form
And keeping it in like some secret that's good
Only if kept to oneself.
And in the whistles and taps that rise with the wind
The music's overtaken.
