after Schumann
In every half-filled glass a river
begging to be named, rain on a leaf,
a snowdrift. What we long for
precedes us. What we’ve lost
trails behind, casting
a long shadow. Tonight
the music’s sad, one man’s
outrageous loneliness detonated
into arpeggios of relief. The way
someone once cupped someone’s
face in their hands, and the world
that comes after. Everything
can be pared down to gravity
or need. If the soul
soars with longing
the heart plunges headfirst
into what’s left, believing
there’s a pure want
to fall through. What
we drink to in the end
is loss, the space around it,
the opposite of thirst, its shadow.
