73 To Constance Each space plays its own silent music, But who will know this if you will not dance -- You step in changing the beat of your breath, Your color of eyes for the flutist. Each face sings its melody, tacit, And you must dance, showing me how I sound. Inside of you, I will flow to pronounce My breath in your vowels of gestures. Each day has its consonance hidden To make you dance with my eyes in your hands -- And trace the flow, tying tight silent threads And meshing my eyes with the rhythm.


Confined Verse
Collected Poems