.
It's not the tunes, although as I get older
Arias are what I hum and whistle.
It's not the plots––they continue to bewilder
In the tongue I speak and in several that I wrestle.
An image of articulateness is what it is:
Isn't this how we've always longed to talk?
Words as they fall are monotone and bloodless
But they yearn to take the risk these noises take.
What dancing is to the slightly spastic way
Most of us teeter through our bodily life
Are these measured cries to the clumsy things we say,
In the heart's duresses, on the heart's behalf.
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