Passion

It isn't the choir of small boys, casting about, singing shyly or
It isn't  with perfect oval mouths,
and it isn't the gentle rocking solo on the violin
played by a man who'd sooner mooch a meal from anyone than pay,
and it isn't the lovely rapture of the cellist who, between her legs and
It isn't  in the fluent embrace of her arms,
gives birth to a god who makes the audience tremble,
and it isn't the white-haired athlete marking time with his stick and
It isn't  coaxing the lot of them to music,
and it isn't the long-dead Lutheran Kapellmeister who built this
It isn't  temple of sound with a crew of amateurs,
and it isn't the packed house too eager to spring to its feet in applause,
or the flaws of performance, or the whole tragic lift of the night as
It isn't  the tale surges to its close.
It is all of them. And it passes. And will never be heard again on earth.

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