I am the crown prince of Egypt and you are my songs.
I am the visible mouth of the Dead Sea Scroll’s tongue.
I am Anasi the Spider, talespinner.
I am the ear of corn which survived magnification.
I am the slit down the back of the harpist’s hand-dyed red dress.
I am the indigo soul irradiating from Tazaki’s red-glazed ovals
feverishly tapping Stravinsky’s Petroushka up from the keys.
I am the indigo soul and Tazaki’s indigo mane flashes.
Four times she is called back. Her composed body times four bows.
She quivers still in her opaque silks.
I am night rain freezing upon contact.
I am the moon turned full in darkness.
I am modern times seen through a subway window.
I am the child who talks to silence.
I am the mystic Consuelo who lived before as a countess and gypsy.
I am the Steinway beaten into dance.
I am the indigo soul which breaks sleet into sandwiches for trees.
I am the indigo soul which surprises cardinals in a deserted park.
I am the indigo soul which rises, bare tree on a hill, in winter.
