When I dream of you
now that it’s over,
a man sings
basso profundo
—the range my waking ears are deaf to hear—
a dirge,
very beautiful, composed, true,
nothing from this world,
nor heard before;
no question of putting notes
to page
like you do.
I don’t know how
something in me invents this,
something hears this
—song you will never hear—
I don’t have that man’s
voice, nor do you.
So who is this singing
our ending
as if he knows us?
As if it is this exquisite?
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