19 May 2024

By Philip Kuepper

Boats sit, notes,
on the sheet music bay.
They appear to have been written there
by a pen in the hand
of a composer in the heat
of composition. The boats
sit there, notes to be
sung? No, to be played.
No, to be sung. No…
Oh, I don’t know.
Notes, anyway.
I will leave it
for the music to decide
whether or not it wants to
be sung, or played, or both.
Still, I muse on this.
I can’t let it alone.
I worry it,
and to my detriment.
I must let go of it,
let it
go its own way,
now that I have thought it
into being. It is now
an entity separate from me,
boats, notes set asail,
across the sheet music bay.

(22 April 2024)