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


Everywhere the tiny infinite engines

Grinding it all down

Everything out of nothing

Going into


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