by Steve King
© 2011
All rights reserved
Voices never did quite mesh.
Whether one uplifted,
one drew the other down
toward an awkward median—
how is one to say?
Close.
A ritual chant perhaps,
some might have taken for a song.
Or just two lines
of strange accompaniment,
converging accidentals,
without that binding melody.
The strains remain at hand,
resonant within a realm
where echoes are relentless
and background chords
still drift beneath old moods.
Strains,
pianissimo,
in dark solo refrain…
Not disharmony, no:
Both moon and sun
might share a changing sky.
One must surely slip.
