It will not mistake pride for gravitas
when it takes a cloth to the looking glass
but will find one's relation to heaven
simply focusing on what is hidden.

     Because privacy loves...no one need know
one hears the violin court the oboe.
No poem ever brought, or ever will,
mosses from that valley to this stark hill.

     Revealing in whispers -like to madness-
how one distills the music from the sadness.
Awake while machinery cools and sleeps,
and loath to forsake the vigil it keeps.