Sunrise tree

The New York Pro Musica Antigua

The rain almost erased the night of the Pro Musica.
Like infant entrails oozed up from the anointed earth,
Crowds of worms had come up to an asphalt altar
For the crush of water and warm feet. My umbrellaed
Friend flinched against the feeling in her soles.
But I plunged on, my head loomed high like
A laden bomber over bufferclouds that disengage it
From the earth that gives it up and takes it back.

Pro Musica poured the 12th century warmly up the walls.
Like inverse rain rose the ghosts of those lost years.
From walnut, maple and mahogany gushed much more
Than earth and sun had invested in the grain.
Entrails tightened to cellos, lutes spoke to music
Inside me. Mine, alive, instinctively responded.
But only when I heard the human voices sing
Themselves to each other did the poem compose itself.

Descending from the concert via grass I was astonished:
The world was filled with tiny screams of earthworms.
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