Morton Feldman’s “Two Pianos” tiptoes out
The house machinery stops
Alone in light too dim to read by
The north wind in the final autumn leaves
Waking the front porch chimes
The scrape of my glass on a sandstone coaster
A stomach gurgle, a catch of breath
It is all too much
Too much for the silence falling like snow
Piling on the rocker, the bookcases
Slipping between the pages of the books
Melting into the words on the pages
But I could not read if I wanted to
That would mean moving
And I am being told not to move
By the silence in everything
That came from nowhere
Every breath a blasphemy
Every thought a curse
The breeze gentling the chimes
Is too much
It is all too much
The little clock on the bookshelf
Churning like a turbine
The wind rising
Falling
Everywhere the tiny infinite engines
Grinding it all down
Everything out of nothing
Going into
Nothing