For Ronald Farren-Price
one whom Pound would have called
‘an old man with beautiful manners’—
a Beethoven man
dwelling in the divine structures
from the beginning
to the end of his time—
was telling me of his present, slow days
of how his mornings
some of his loveliest time is spent
I was at a loss.
Poets simply have no word for what
he was intimating …
Except perhaps to say—
Like a choreography for hands
Like a preliminary dance of heart-mind
Like feeling towards breathing new-born
Like approaching the form of perfect emptiness
Like touching fullness on the shoulder
having it turn around.
Cross these out. Stay dumb. Just
leave him be next time you meet.
Quietly imagine yourself
slipping your own hand
into God’s glove.