Chopin
He wakes in sleep, sinking
through light beads filtered round
into the water’s depth.
The calm of death, of breath
slowing, leaving only
rain-backs spiraling soft,
a mirror edge rippling
the echo of bells. Strong,
their current rings lower—
how each pushes down deepas the black whirlpool caught
in lovers’ eyes. The darkbells toned to mourn can sing
of past, of now, of whenmelody moves to hold
a life in its nets. Deep,
how each pushes down deepas the black whirlpool caught
in lovers’ eyes. The darkbells toned to mourn can sing
of past, of now, of whenmelody moves to hold
a life in its nets. Deep,
he floats deep, down, bottomed
in mind, in myth that breaks
both air and water sharp,
like creaks beside a death
bed. A closed coffin cuts
the length of road that leads
to graves. Few follow it,
his bier, down near the pond
where he drowns, deep, where he
dies, dark, and sees and sees
them pass, his past, and leaves,
and rain, all falling drop
by drop. The bells end, soft.
Dreams compose. Morning lifts.
Hawai’i Pacific Review, 2003
Video concept and production by See More Perspective.
Editorial assistance by Isy Kohler.