John Bush

A Causa causata And then, again, I still can see her--- I relax listening to my radio, to somebody playing Chopin while she showers. and      this leisure, this cheer, this kicking back,      this cudgel seems so far so deep       into a harmony--- her ablution my libation his absolve or, rather, resolve--- Then come the hard passive notes like tepid rain like droplets whorling into heavy rivers, smoothing at once her random hair.       Water glazes her face, and she looks marmoreal dea certe-- her forehead high tilted back her mouth open wide as the sun--- The simple waters spread her gathered lips and spill from her chin filming her breasts her wrinkled rosed tips  and her great white pregnant belly --The waters trickle to the port-- And Chopin continues for me for her quietly pronounced, and the keys sound an infinite euphony, that same song I've composed a thousand times in my head for her, for them, and my soft recourse-- my music, my wife, my child-- for them I will continue my reprise with a water murmur replete with prisms and a cusping heart, for during this afternoon of secret voices, I imagine a tub with feathered feet carrying her away into heaven with my tangent view, my long view, inevitable as notes forming the golden mean, as my face greets the wind.

Copyright © 1999 John Bush All Rights Reserved