As in The Last Temptation of Christ,
within that Pincher Martin moment,
that Occurrence at Owl Creek instant,
a life is missed before it’s gone:
all the fertile possibilities yet
unripened, yet unseen;
all the scents unsavored in the air
around the further life we’d miss;
your skin, the touch of all the world,
delicious darkness yet untouched;
all the flavors of our mouths,
your lips, the bursting fruit untasted;
and all the atmospheres of music,
played and sung and felt
like wind within my skin,
and heard and heard and heard and still unheard.

For how long does the air vibrate
with the fugue that passes through it?
Echoes linger in this hollow hall
but will there be a you, an I, a we?
How will the air be known without our ears?
And when the music fades into the wind
will counterpoint arise to take the lead?