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.