There Must Be Music or Fear

When we are singing we are
in the midst of delight
& when we are not
we are not. Silence hangs
a skinned bell, slit tongue
displayed on ice, the raw
message of entrails
composedly about. In the leisurely
steaming that breaks out we could
warm our hands for a moment
before thinking about that particular
form of radiator. The gasped verse
of alone in the shower
when the heat goes, the slow burn
of washing up next to
the head of a ghost. It is
singing that keeps this
in tune, or not.

Copyright © 2004 Rodney Wittwer All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission