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Just now the music’s
in the rain and in
the washing of the trees,
but when the light
fell on the roofs
and idle chimney stacks
it sounded like a band
of Irish pipes supported
by the wail of trains.

I wouldn’t wish to die
in such a breaking of a day,
on such a note,
but in the music of the rain,
now that’s another thing,
with a score written
by those hands
that carved out flutes
and conjured fire. That
is the river that we run,
dance to be danced
deep in a forest
where the flowers thrust out
their genitals with greedy lips
and curl their phallic tongues,
or in the jig-sawn streets;
cadences of stone,
arias of roots
and steel.

Music’s a fine way
of seeing things, just as
a trumpet sounds like brass
and violins become the voices
of bent pines, and drums
are rumbling stomachs
of wild beasts, palpitations
of fear-stricken hooves,
blues are the harvest
of the cotton fields.

Strange fruit,
mood indigo,
rain-wash on leaves,
a dying day,
of equinoctial geese,
a full moon drifts
behind a hanging tree.

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