WEBVTT

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Three more, Lawn Concert.

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I had to ask last night
if you had those here,

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like Tanglewood,
playing outside music.

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It sounds like.

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Lawn Concert.

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They may have come
to hear about love,

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or blank pain that
stays blank until music

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makes a shape for it.

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So to know it, so
to feel it out.

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But for whatever
reasons of their own,

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the lovers swarm
here in throngs.

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Paired hand in hand,
blankets under arms,

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wine bottles
swinging by the necks

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like pendulums of old clocks.

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And music is a good excuse for
picnics in the lush night air,

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but when it begins and
she begins to listen,

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a woman may tell how
she loves the man.

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The way her back inclines
sitting next to him.

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By the way she
freely touches him,

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as if there were no
limits to her touch.

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As if there were no
touch they haven't known,

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and she believes that
he's the one from whom

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to take essential
sustenance and feels no need

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to seek it in anyone else.

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I've never felt this
way myself, maybe

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it happens for only a
few moments in a life.

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The other couples
near my blanket

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make other arrangements.

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Sitting upright in lawn chairs,
or scattered on the grass.

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One man lies on his side
with his back to his wife.

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His head pillowed on
the inside of his wrist,

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while she sits hugging
her knees to her breasts,

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as if they had argued and
switched off the light.

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But soon we're all drawn
inside the symphony,

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the air suffused with
music and we breathe it.

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And darkness will thicken,
so those around me

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are just black shapes,
melded or apart.

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So I lie back, my eyes wide,

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listening hard, to
watch the crossing

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of the music and the stars.

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To feel myself nothing,
but some chance

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meeting of the endless space
and endless inwardness.

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I even half expect
some inhuman voice

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to tell me how to embrace
the constant underlying

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silence that surfaces
in this music

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and shows the bow strokes,
clean as brushstrokes

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on a white canvas, but
there's none of this.

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Only the thought of lovers
lying down right now.

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Their touches useless,
or tender, or electric.

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