Remembering Pablo
He understood. Each of us is a pulse
of sound, scrap of cadence, shaky rhythm
doubting itself, random song sputtering along
in the redwood duff. What he did was
listen to himself. Who does that?
He rapped and rattled, playing it all out,
sending himself ahead of himself.
Among the waves glittering, chewing away
cliffs off Trinidad, a thrumming, a ringing,
currents of sound, water, light.
If you close your eyes, someone might hear
you singing.
*Title translation: Sound of Light
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