The small trombone of evanescence
tidies me away from obligation
that has smothered pleasure.
I am learning to discover joy
in mirrors turned to face the wall.
I hear them seek a quiet likeness.
Each revealing froth of music
risen to a cloud apart from destination.
Theory is a home replete with open air.
Every facet of the reach remains
in my control I have forgotten
measures of the water and the air in sound.
Sheila E. Murphy
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