Music From Strange Apartments ~ Al Maginnes


You think you would love anyone

who listens to such music, lush

vines of invitation winding blind

and harmonious from their nest.

Once, you might have climbed

the stairs to that unknown door,

talked until you were invited in,

seated on a cushion or low chair

eye level with the fluid greens

of plants you could never keep alive

as the room vanished inside music

that for you was the room.

Today, you try to read the title

of the heavy book, a college text

or anthology, holding open the window,

the coffee and lemons, apples and cans of tuna

you shopped for weightless

in an intoxication designed

to make you forget all music

flattens to mere structure

the more you listen. The smell

of a lover’s skin blends with furniture.

Kisses stale into routine. It’s hard

to live a whole life in the body

and still believe the possibility

of love innocent and bold enough

to stay fresh, to venture forward

like the new shoots of plants

whose soft explorations begin,

expecting nothing, thriving as long

as there is room for silence

and music to fill that silence.