Melancholy, most beautiful word,like a sound some ancient instrument unearthed—or earthed, its fusion of cave and cloud.
Or cloud, come to think, so close to could,how the mouth rounds, soundsnot just the shape itself but a sky in which to float,
gentle hills, a home in the distance,then a whole fall filled with cool sun and stuttered colorsthrough which one’s walking,
considering the long and polar O of alone,which has its own beauty,and a silent one,
hiding like the seal I saw in the strait of San Juanwhen the pod of killer whales glided past the rocks.Another life, as they say, though there is always only one,
sound and mind so mysteriously alignedone strains to tell if memory’s foghorn is realor if that’s simply the sound that memory makes.
I…