Practice room ghosts haunted my more musical friends as they talked
About why they stopped performing, one jazz piano, one classical violin,
Over fine dark beers in our courtyard the other evening, fall fine as spring.
Why does anyone stop? One knows that the ghosts aren't listening,
But one can't help listening to the ghosts. Get rid of them, but
Know that gets rid of everything else as well. Bad Iuck. The ghosts
Were all we ever were and ever had to hear. There is no word in the language
For end-of-awareness sadness, but the spirit picks up the first sound
Of its approach. There's so much to awareness, so little ability to consider it.
The soul never ran away. The soul never returned. The soul took the world away,
Strange marriage, given the yearning for not-world that had to define the soul.
It would have been a fine thing for the world if everyone were entitled to be lucky.
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