Fish born caught by a kind of music
No less opaque than the luminous sprawl
that
runs a billion years to the back
No less opaque than the crest
of
an order of none-too-abstinent monks
on a liquor bottle
No less opaque than what your
father
meant
by being alive
No less opaque than whether
the
day is given or taken
We pick up our voices and go at it
But the music plays us
and
not always well